The Possessions of a Lady Read online

  God, but he stank worse than usual. His grubby mittens looked crawling. I asked if he'd seen Roger Boxgrove. He hadn't. I told him to scout, that I was broke.

  'Got the amber fancied up, though, eh?'

  You have to smile. He's amazing. I've found him sloshed, snoring in a shed for two days blind drunk, and seen him wake, rub his eyes, and say, 'Lovejoy? Hear about them sofa tables at Beccles? Just gone for a song.' It's a gift, news by osmosis. I can't do it, or I would.

  'Aye. Here, Tinker. What's Wonker up to?'

  'Carving you that fake misericord. Why?'

  'Not fake, Tinker,' I corrected patiently in case anybody was listening. 'Genuine antique misericord from an unnamed cathedral. Only, Wonker saw me on the shore. He didn't come over, not a cheep.'

  'That bird, I suppose.'

  Bird? I started guiltily, but couldn't remember having done anything illicit lately with Wonker's bird. She's comely, from Black Notley. People don't need evidence to blame me, I've found.

  'Not you, son,' Tinker gravelled out, hawking up phlegm and spitting expertly into the pub fire over folks' heads. 'He's lost his bird to that chain game Aureole runs.' His mouth corrugated in disapproval. He's a prim old soak.

  'Nothing to do with me?' I asked hopefully.

  'Nar, son. Ought not to be allowed.'

  Relief flooded in. 'That all? Look, Tinker. I want a place to mount the sea gold. Benjie?'

  'Not Benjie, Lovejoy. Turning out Victorian jewellery like Ford motors for foreigners.'

  'Hell fire.' I tried getting a pint for Tinker on the slate but the bar girls looked askance.

  'There's some bird from up home's phoning Antiques Centre.' Up home to Tinker means north, where we both come from. He cited, 'Stella Entwistle wants Lovejoy to ring Bran Mantle.'

  'Never heard of him. Where can I work?'

  'Your own workshop?' he suggested. 'It's only boarded up.'

  Not a bad idea. I brightened, found Tellso playing tap room billiards and borrowed a few quid off him on the strength of having a collection of antique horse brasses for sale. I promised them by ten the following morning, bought Tinker enough ale to swim in, and hit the road.

  On Head Street by the post office I nearly jumped out of my skin when a bloke yelled my name.

  'Lovejoy! Don't, for God's sake!'

  ‘What? What?' I screeched, scared stiff.

  'The cracks! Have you no sense?' Tubb caught me up. 'You want bad luck on the sand job?'

  We'd not need bad luck, with Tubb bawling about the secret robbery.

  'Why don't you just send the Plod a frigging postcard, you noisy sod?'

  'Keep our luck, Lovejoy, and we'll do a grand job.' He made a thumb and finger sign, both hands.

  'Like your last robbery?' I cut back, then wished I hadn't because his face fell. 'Sorry, Tubb. Having a bad spell.'

  'Spell? Portenta's a friend. Reversal of fortune's her speciality this equinox. She hexed the elections. . .’

  'No.' I knew Portenta, all spells and heather.

  'Definite dosh and date for the sand job, Lovejoy,' Tubb said, loud enough to alert the coastguard. 'I'll call Portenta.'

  Hearing that Carmel'd given the go-ahead was all very well. Portenta always uses Hedingham Castle's cauldron, as secret as our fire brigade.

  'Better not, Tubb.' I invented quickly, 'Er, I've got a lady who's the best. I'm,' I added with daring, 'her nephew.'

  The bus was on time. It'd never been on time before. I don't like unreliability, and played hell with the driver Diana all the way to the village. She took not a blind bit of notice. Women never do. Coming home was like old times.

  Notices bragged of the law's assault on my insulted home, planks nailed over the windows, hefty wire mesh on boards barricading my porch. Stern penalties threatened anyone removing (a) seals, (b) notices, or (c) anything else.

  Sad, I walked among the weeds and brambles. The thought of other people ransacking my cottage makes me feel sick. Bailiffs, burglars, it's always the way. International fraudsters hive off fortunes, pull the old bankruptcy dodge, and get millions in what's laughably called 'legal aid' to live in Park Lane. Your ordinary bloke gets his cottage boarded up.

  Houses are really odd. I stood gazing in the wet garden. If I'd been on holiday, the cottage wouldn't be different. What I mean is, it would still look lived in. Now, though? I'd been evicted barely hours, and already it looked abandoned. It's as if a home actually knows. I shivered.

  'What's the matter?' some woman asked behind me.

  'Mind your own frigging business, missus.' I didn't look round. I wanted fewer people, not more.

  'I'm sorry, Lovejoy. I tried to stop them.'

  'Oh, aye.'

  I'm never cynical, but calamity makes you wonder. Everybody 'really tries' to help, wishes you well, sends love, says they're thinking of you. Yet you finish up in the mire just the same. There'd probably be a shoal of good luck cards on the mat. Even Portenta's hocus-pokery is more sincere, and she's sham through and through. At least she believes something.

  'Want a lift to town?'

  'No, ta. I'll stay.' I went to the, my, cottage.

  Her worried voice said, 'You'll get arrested.'

  Start at the beginning, I suppose, would be best. I used a sapling lathe—'pole' lathe, they called it anciently—in the undergrowth. It wasn't hard to find, just a couple of saplings and a string between, with a treadle and holding ropes. I searched the weeds, came up with a rusting hammer, a saw, a battered plane.

  The sods had boarded up my workshop, only a garage converted to proper use. I savaged the planks, broke the law's seal and entered the cottage. I had the wit to knock up a mediaeval rope hinge for the planks once I'd nailed them back together. That way, anyone on the lane would think it still barred, while the planks became an improvised door. I put the saw where I'd found it. It would get me in by winkling it in a gap I deliberately left.

  Lord of my own domain, I'd done a thorough job. Nobody outside could see a glim. Electricity, water, gas, phone, everything was cut off. I found my oil lantern, and lo there was light and the light was good, so they could get stuffed.

  My workshop didn't need defences, because its door faces away from the footpath. I started work.

  Amber is hell to cut, bonny to carve, and ecstasy to polish. My trick is to warm it in my mouth—it shatters less, and doesn't flake. I have an old dentist's drill, worked with my foot, and use burrs and bits for fine work. Unless you've a lifetime's experience, always fake by copying. Wedgwood's designs are best. For heaven's sake, though, use a piece of felt glued to your smoothest burr, and don't miss out any surface depressions except the deepest. I did an arbor, an urn, and added a Greek goddess because I liked her shape. Took two hours. Then I felted—polished—it by hand.

  'Tea's up, Lovejoy.' Same voice.

  She must have waited for me to finish before interrupting. Women persevere, that's for sure.

  'Can't be. I've got none.'

  'I've bought in, and a camper's Primus.'

  Curious, I looked. It was Faye, lone lovely who'd got ribbed at Thekla's fashion show.

  'Ta, love. Bring any chips?'

  'Appetites later, Lovejoy.' She smiled. 'I've a sheaf of messages. A smelly old man says that Kent the Rammer sold the tigers. Does that make sense?'

  For a moment I went giddy. A drizzle started, wet onshore wind. Kent had sold the fire-irons? But it was imposs ... It wasn't impossible. Not if somebody was following me about seeing what I divvied. Or Tinker. Who on my side wasn't on my side?

  'Are you all right, Lovejoy?' she asked. I'd sat down on the little decorative wall I'll finish one day. But one day is none day, old Lancashire saying.

  'Mmmh, ta. I've been hunched over too long.'

  'A barmaid called Frothey is angry. And some antique dealers. That smelly old soldier. . .’

  'My friend.' I gave her the bent eye. 'Tinker's my barker, the best in the business.'

  ‘I apologise, Lovejoy.' She went
red. 'And Roger Box-grove. And Lydia your apprentice. Tinker says phone Stella Entwistle, and how long are you going to be Bran Mantle. I didn't understand that. And a cross middle-aged lady called Mavis. Aureole is going to sue you for every last farthing for wrecking her flat.'

  That last really surprised me. You make Aureole feel needed, and what thanks do you get?

  'Some others I've written down.' She took my arm. We went inside. 'Look at them when we've had our snack. I have a suite booked at the George.'

  The thought of grub made me swoon. 'You've . . . ?'

  She smiled prettily, explained, 'I'm your chainer. I've hired you, Lovejoy.'

  'Look, love,' I began, embarrassed.

  'Please don't feel at all put out. You're paid for and above board.' She coloured some more. 'Well, not quite that, you understand. Arranged.'

  'Who with? I've no money to go taking anybody out.'

  'Aureole.' She was pleased with herself. 'I've never done this sort of thing. But I do believe you should start with the creator of a system, don't you? You did invent chain dating, Lovejoy?'

  The place had been tidied up.

  'But I didn't think I'd be anybody's link.'

  'Well, let's consider that while we have supper. We can leave for the George when we're ready.'

  Things were looking up. I smiled at Faye, thinking what a beautiful lass she actually was. Some women really do get it right.

  10

  What do I have to do?' I asked Faye as we approached the George. I like the old place. In its day it's been everything from a brothel to a lazaro, plague hospital to a pilgrim's rest.

  'I'm a newspaper columnist. There's your answer.'

  She led the way through the lounge. Hardly anybody in, the evening yet young. A crusty Colonel Blimp nodded over his Times. The log fire blazed. A waitress swayed about, black dress, starched apron. Two ladies sat sipping tea, hot crumpets in the dish. It was all happening.

  For a second I wondered whether to scarper, but chucked the idea as aroma wafted out from the carvery. News columnists and me don't mix. I never read what they make up.

  'When, Lovejoy?' she asked in the foyer.

  'When what?' I yelped. 'Er, sorry?'

  She did the woman's non-smile, so innocent you could tell she was laughing.

  'When would you like supper?'

  'Now, please.' It's not my fault if women never eat. Because she'd had one chip and a lettuce last Easter, was I expected to starve?

  She wanted the table moved, our seats shifted. I swear waiters like this sort of thing. She had two rushing about demented.

  'Look,' I said, uneasy. 'Are you investigating that dig thing? Maldon?'

  'Let's order first, Lovejoy.'

  We did the menu mutter, then I got down to it. No good ruining free nosh by worrying over past sins.

  'It wasn't me last October, Faye,' I confessed. 'It wasn't my fault that land got sold. Maldon authorities allowed builders to erect 450 houses right on the most valuable historic site in the entire world. Well, in Maldon,' I ended lamely. 'Can I have your bread?' Women don't like bread, dunno why.

  'Please take it.' She sat, chin on her interlaced fingers, and said with wide-eyed erotic innocence, 'It isn't what folk are saying, is it?'

  'No,' I said, swiftly buttering her roll in case she changed her mind. 'They would say that. Look, Faye. Ask why an ancient town allows a property company to bulldoze a rural site.' I glanced about, nervous. 'Not far from Heybridge. The council is only spending public money to help the homeless, so what better reason? Why not build in that particular spot?'

  'Envelope, please,' she quipped. 'The answer is?'

  'Because it's the only untouched Iron Age town we've got left, love!' Tears filled my eyes. I couldn't help it. 'That Heybridge site was a pristine mediaeval borough, on an Anglo-Saxon township, on a Roman colony, on an Iron Age town!'

  'Are you all right?'

  'Course I am, silly cow. It's the onion.' The soup was stinging my eyes.

  Her eyes were on me. She hadn't started hers.

  'Didn't folk realise?'

  'It's a question of reverence for life.' I couldn't continue for a minute. 'Think. Those ancient Iron Age people, living out their little lives. They must have believed that us folk coming after, their descendants, would surely care. They must have sat by their fires smiling, thinking how their future children— us —would revere their ancestors' relics. They buried small treasures as gifts, offerings to some tree god perhaps, tokens to us who would come after. But did we?'

  Her face seemed to be swimming. 'Did we, Lovejoy?'

  'Did we frigging hell. Incompetent money-grabbing councillors sent the builders ripping in. Archaeologists—inept criminals to a man—hove up, started frantic excavations only days ahead of the bulldozers. The press—you—made a hue and cry: Race Against Time. I framed headlines with my hands.

  'I'm sorry.' She sounded surprisingly lifelike for a reporter. 'Shall we talk afterwards?'

  'Shut up and listen. In eleven days the archaeologists excavated a quarter of a million pieces of pottery alone, plus God knows what else.'

  'Wasn't there a Maldon spokesman . . . ?'

  'There always is.' I scraped my bowl viciously. 'They said, We'd no idea.'

  'But they knew?'

  'The Heybridge site's been known at least two hundred years, love.' I slurped a bit of the wine. 'It's called administrative efficiency. Or bribery.'

  Her eyes never left me. 'Why does your name keep coming up, Lovejoy?'

  'Look.' I was fed up with accusations. 'When councillors and magnates combine to exploit land, our Iron Age ghosts for Christ's sake, haven't I a right to do something?'

  'So you did, Lovejoy?'

  'Okay. It was me. I organised the gang that broke those two fellers' legs. And okay, I hired the moonspenders— enthusiasts with electronic metal-seeking devices.'

  'Let's get this straight,' she said. 'It really truly wasn't you who injured those two men?'

  'Honest,' I said most sincerely. 'Hand on my heart. What's happened to the grub?'

  'We have to choose it ourselves, I think,' she said in a faint voice. 'In a moment.'

  She was taking a hell of a time finishing a salad. 'Rules are rules when you're nicking artefacts, Faye.'

  'Of course, Lovejoy. I see that.'

  I'd recovered, smiling at a past success. 'We lifted over seven thousand items in nineteen days. I've not been paid yet.'

  'Lifted? Meaning stolen?' She looked horrified.

  'No.' I took her salad and finished it. Wait for her, we'd never make the real food. 'They're left by our own ancestors for us.'

  'When did the men's legs get broken?' she asked faintly.

  'That pair nicked stuff on the sly. It's against the rules. You pinch historic artefacts for the team. Everything went to Worcester,' I said proudly, my heart lifting with emotion. 'Every pot we lifted, every pennyweight of metal. Beautiful.' I almost filled up.

  The two blokes were caught selling Roman coins from the excavation. One had a Roman doctor's probe, a straight thin instrument with a terminal midget spoon. I was called to the tavern after closing time and shown their spoils. I didn't see the miscreants, Dogleg and Chaplin, but I knew them. Furnace was their ganger, mortified. He's an astonishingly gentle bloke, who funds two children's hospital beds.

  'See, Lovejoy,' he'd said in his kindly Devon. 'My lads get very hairy.'

  'I know, Furnie,' I'd said back. I was frightened, because I'd once seen Big John's gang simply take a house apart. And I do mean brick by brick, simply vanish the entire place, when the owner delayed payment. It had taken fifteen hours one Friday night while the non-payer's family was in London. He'd returned Saturday morn to find the dwelling gone, his furniture auctioned off for a children's charity. The house itself was rubble under a Buckinghamshire housing estate. I was scared witless because Big John hadn't really been angry on that occasion, merely disappointed. I could remember worse times when he'd been furious, an
d wanted three-league boots next time. He had funded the Maldon rescue.

  'The lads want Dogleg and Chaplin limping, Lovejoy,' Furnace had said, sad.

  'They do?' I'd croaked, desperate.

  Furnace was relentless. 'Yes or no. If no, what?'

  Indeed. Sweat dripped down my face. I still feel it in the candle hours when memory won't let go. If I'd let Dogleg and Chaplin off with a slap on the wrist, it'd prove I was in collusion with them, and I wasn't.

  'Do I tell my lads to break their legs, Lovejoy?'

  'Better be yes, Furnie,' I said, in anguish.

  'Good, Lovejoy,' Furnace was pleased the job was still being run smoothly. He has a smile a saint would kill for. 'Do the right thing, eh?'

  He bought me a drink, I remembered. We'd talked of some goalkeeper being accused of taking bribes to throw a football match. Furnace thought it scandalous.

  'Lovejoy?' Faye said. She was looking worried.

  'Oh. You're ready?'

  We rose, chose our meal. I'm clumsy spooning vegetables, always drop some. Faye did it for us. It's lovely to watch a woman; whatever they do's pretty as a picture. As we returned to our table, I caught her looking at me with a calculating air. It suddenly occurred that she hadn't wanted to ask about the Maldon steal at all. Which raised the question, as they say, what the hell?

  'What the hell, Faye?' I said, whaling in.

  'You guessed, Lovejoy.' She coloured slightly, but not enough for guilt. More a cocky pride from hoodwinking me. I want you to bring down a fashion house.' She smiled at my expression, adding quaintly, 'Please.'

  'Oh, right,' I said, cavalier. Any day of the week, Lovejoy's the man to destroy a million-zlotnik trade emporium. Was she mad?

  Humour them when they're off their trolley or when you want to wreak your wicked way. It's the only tactic.

  'You think I'm joking, Lovejoy? Or insane?'

  'No! Fashion's serious stuff. I mean, everybody knows it's . . .' I petered out. What, a con? 'It's, well, famous.'

  'It's everything, Lovejoy.' She stared past me, entranced. I wondered if some film star had hove in. I almost turned to look. 'Clothes, dress. Fashion is the world.'

  By now I was hurling grub down like a stoker coaling up. Time to cut and run. She was beginning to sound like Thekla. I still hadn't recovered from that.