Authors: Jonathan Gash
"Look." She hesitated, played with a blade of grass to help a thought. "Lovejoy, can you swim?"
"Yes. But. . ."
She rose, brushed herself down and smiling held out a hand. "Come on. I'll get you there safely. Cross my heart." Warily I let her pull me up. An enthusiast's a dangerous creature.
12
About a million years ago, before funny money and frothy coffee, long before nuns grew legs, folk had reasonable attitudes. Think back. Words were for communication. Gasmen and plumbers turned up. Trains ran with metronomic regularity. A bloke who whined a lot was simply a whiner. Now, his whining means the world has to feel guilty for simply ignoring the miserable so-and-so. Trustworthiness has gone. What I'm on about is that while Vanessa drove us down to Salcott in a toytown motor she gave me her sales talk for Boxenford Flying Club, whose main pursuit seemed to be taking to the air without significant assistance. More odd modern behavior.
"No, ta," I said for .the umpteenth time. I'd enough trouble on the ground without combing the stratosphere for more.
"You're thinking of accidents," she urged. "Don't. They usually happen on landing—sixty-eight percent—or when taking off, twelve."
Sixty-eight plus twelve equals eighty, which leaves a
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measly twenty percent to survive in. "No, ta." Modern means lunatic.
There's a cluster of boat sheds alongside the third ramification of the creek above the point at Pearlhanger. I'd only ever been down there once, and had a hard time remembering where I was. Even as countryside it's dead. There's only these acres of flooded gravel pits where little lads fish and a few apple farms struggle against the North Sea's whippy gales. The trees actually grow bent over, like on moors. A real drag.
Not that it's uninhabited, not like I'm making it sound. Far from it. Hence my need for some form of concealment. Where you get coasts and countryside you'll always find oddities who actually like being there. Bird-watchers hang about, and a few artists dash off occasional masterpieces among the marshes. Speed-boaters race there. Most of the villages have annual regattas. Writers are often found swaying about the boozers arguing adverbs.
Vanessa was smiling. "Now, Lovejoy. I want to say two things. First: I'm the east coast waterski champion." Her bad sales tactics were showing. "Second: Trust me."
Well, yes. As long as she meant trust her with her. Trusting her with me was a different matter.
She drew up near some boat sheds. I followed her down an overgrown path. Most women's bottoms these days are in welded briefs that slice their bums into multiple segments of an arc, four to each cheek. Vanessa's shape was natural. My spirits rose. If she had that degree of innate good sense . . .
"Right, Vanessa," I said. "I'll trust you." For which daftness one hour later I was wobbling on waterskis in a wet suit like armor. Tenth try without a rest, and I was knackered.
This elderly pipe-smoking man, Tom, steered a small powerboat for me as I floundered on the rope time after stunning time. Vanessa, who had divested with a champion's threatening calm, came with me into the water and kept showing me how. I felt a right prawn and kept begging for a rest.
Tom laughed at me, said I was a sight. Happy as a lawyer at a burial. He hadn't changed, just popped on a bowler hat. I saw with amazement that it actually fitted. Which meant. . .
"Here, Tom," I puffed, sprawling on the mud. "Where were you a gamekeeper?" William Coke invented the bowler as protective headgear for gamekeepers on his Norfolk estate. It's really hunting and shooting gear. Tom Bowler made the first of these rabbit fur "Billy Coke" (hence billy-cock) hats. They still make them the proper way in Stockport, on a potter's wheel and everything, strong enough to stand on. Laborers all wore them a century ago, the first ever worker's helmet. Personally marked ones made by Lock's of St. James' are the ones to go for.
"Bowler gave me away, eh?" Tom was saying. "Here, in the riverside estate. A mile of banks upstream. Now the woods are a disgrace. Mr. Deamer only thinks of the river, bad cess to him. Nobody dares go on his stretch any more."
Interesting. Vanessa caught my gaze on her. Her face looked a pure creamy oval in the black suit, a lovely cameo medallion on an Edwardian lady's elegant black silk dress. Beautiful. She avoided my gaze. I avoided hers.
"Keep trying, Lovejoy," she said. "You'll not get near the house unseen, except on skis. Swim, and the current'll take you. Sail and they'll see you. We'll waterski you past the point. You let go. I'll be down in the boat, slip out and replace you."
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"I realized," I said huffily. "I'm not thick." A little lad was helping with a long rope, asking Tom for instructions and calling him granddad.
We were about two miles from where Deamer's unseen house stood. To the left, the narrowing river's course. To the right, the wide estuary and sea beyond with the distant line of white cottages at Salcott. Tinker was probably in the boozer by now, lucky lad.
"Right, Lovejoy. Time for work."
"Your turn," the kid said. The little psychopath actually thought I was impatient to have a go. He'd stayed to watch the show.
"Shut your teeth," I told him.
"Don't bother Lovejoy, Billy," Vanessa ordered. "He's scared."
"Sorry, Mum," the kiddie said. I'm a bit slow sometimes. My mind was going. If Tom's little Billy's granddad, and Vanessa's little Billy's mother, then the old ex- gamekeeper is Vanessa's—the boat jerked me forward so I engulfed a gallon of estuary. I let go of the rope and floundered.
"No, Lovejoy," said Billy. "Point your toes to heaven."
it-
Six o'clock and the skies darkening. Vanessa had done a last demonstration run. I was a wobbler, but definitely near vertical.
"Time to go now, Lovejoy. Dad'll give you a practice run upriver first as far as the narrows," Vanessa said, still panting. "Stay hold of the bar. Lean right back, straighten up as the speed increases."
"Toes to heaven," the titch piped.
Disgusted, I grabbed the towbar and stood into the
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skis. I couldn't look good even to this little lad. He stood on the jetty practicing the shoreman's critical gaze.
"Tom," I bawled. "Get us out of here for gawd's sake."
Vanessa squealed alarm and leapt into the boat. I leaned back, my heart thumping.
"Arms outstretched,
toes ..."
I said, "I'll thump you, you little bugger." The engine growled. Burglary time.
*
The daylight was fading. I was bruised and my chest was bubbling river water. But I was in there, breathlessly balancing and splashing along on the end of the towbar while the boat ahead created a hell of a disturbance. The problem was the waves, which thumped unexpectedly under your feet. Nobody'd warned me about those.
My gaze was on Vanessa, who was applauding and signaling from Tom's boat. She'd never once wavered, always smiling and picking me out of the water whenever I'd floundered, though I think she was less concerned about me than losing the skis.
Vanessa's instructions had been simple. "Judge the speed, Lovejoy. There's that segment where you can't be seen from the house. When you're in that blind spot, let go of the towbar. Dad will see to direction. You'll keep moving and can wade ashore. Leave the rest to me."
She ducked down out of sight. Old Tom had this arrangement of mirrors.
For authenticity Vanessa said we would take a wide sweep upriver and then do a long run down, out into the bay and curl in towards the promontory where Deamer's house stood.
The riverbank rises there, half a remote mile inland,
...
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where trees crowd down to the water. Engine noise banged back at me from the steeper banks. We came near the narrows. We'd have to turn there or there'd be no more space.
Tom signaled, arm out, and I leaned to take up the curve. Vanessa said some skiers could do it without skis, even in bare feet. To my astonishment I saw a figure standing knee-deep in the river, bent over with his face in a bucket, would you believe. Like children apple-bob, faces in the water. I missed him by a yard, silly sod.
He was suddenly aware of the boat's passing commotion, and wobbled over. I was so startled I yelled out in alarm. The figure wore a tatty overcoat. I was bawling abuse even as I realized it was Tinker. We were past and skittering downstream before I wondered what the hell the stupid goon was up to. Probably drunk as an autumn wasp, as usual. I'd strangle the fool when I got back, frightening me like that.
It was only the coldish wind and spray that was making my teeth chatter. I saw Tom's arm lift and sink, heard the engine rise to a low bellow. The waves beat faster, the rope a taut stick. The motorboat's wake shifted out of my way to a wider angle, thank God. The wooden jetty glided past at some speed, little Billy waving, and we were out into the estuary heading for the bay.
The day was definitely leaning out of the light now. Astonishing how static the whole world seemed. Really weird. The promontory stood there, looming in the fading light. The house was not quite end-on, probably built for views. A distant yacht was moving into the little marina, and one other waterskier was raising a white arc further out than us. Other than that we had clear water. A few cars were switching on their sidelights leaving the marina's car park.
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Only the spray proved we were shifting at such speed. The big house turned slowly. Its windows angled, thinned. The blank aspect came wider.
I let go of the bar, kept my angle, slowed, and sank gracefully onto sand. A following wave nudged me over, but I didn't mind.
All over bar the shouting.
2Q
Before I mutated into an antique dealer I used to have these dreams of suddenly being changed: a dazzling actor, famous explorer, brilliant physicist rising to tumultuous applause to explain his boring new subatomic particle. But I was thankful to wake palpitating into relief, because an actor must know his lines and in my dream I never did. And an explorer has to know how to survive in a blizzard, and I don't. And a physicist must be able to say something to that sea of expectant faces. . . . Suddenness, you see, is a killer. Knowledge is the survival factor. Only stupid people find themselves suddenly somewhere, ignorant of what to do.
On my hands and knees without knowing how I'd finished up in that position, and waves splashing gently at my wrists. A dog was watching, crouching breathlessly in hopes of a game. I swore it to boredom and it trotted off, sniffing.
Nothing was broken. I clambered out of my skis and left the damned things there on the shore. Tom had been right. He'd bragged he could land on a tanner, but surely it was my own brilliance that had glided me to this precise spot facing Deamer's house's side wall? Anybody would agree. It's the intrepid young man in his flying machine that matters. Proudly I unzipped for freer movement. Now a quick trot over to Deamer's house, grab the evidence that he and his mate had killed Owd Maggie and Vernon, then as soon as it was pitch dark, cross the tidal path to where Vanessa would wait with her car as arranged.
Presumably there would be guards around. Silence was needed. Or was it? Nobody was on guard that I could see. They could be indoors, or sheltering under the trees, of course. Like a fool, I cleverly decided to outwit them, and wasted half an hour skulking around outside the house. By the time I'd got back to my starting place, narked and scratched and muddy in my underwear, it was completely dark and I'd not seen or heard a soul. Deamer's mansion didn't seem guarded at all.
Many oldish houses have a conservatory. They're always a weak spot, plenty of windows and access through to the house. I was getting cold. It took me a while to nick some trellis wire from some plant too bone-idle to stand up on its own.
Wire goes through putty and round corners. You loosen the putty, then shove the wire through it. Bend the wire to an angle, direct it into one of the holes so conveniently punched in the window's handle, and pull. A moment's wait for a clamor of alarms, then slide yourself in.
Somebody else's house always has a strange feel, so I stood stock still, letting the lovely old place talk. Quietness and feelings are the two most underrated commodities these days—probably because you can't bung them in a bottle and charge a guinea an ounce.
People were inside. I felt them and the house didn't mind me. It was safe to move.
The communicating door was unlocked. I remembered that long hallway, the corridor. A feeble sea glow defined the stained glass window and was reflected back from the delicious old panels. I dropped on all fours and got to the corner. Voices.
People were talking in the study. The old serf had left the light on down the cellar stairs, which was a mercy because enough light cast on the walls and heavy furniture.
"You see, my dear," Deamer's voice was saying, "there are risks and risks. Some are unnecessary."
"And what risk is he?" Donna's voice.
"Pathetically small."
There was a smile in the old man's voice. I found myself smiling with him. So he too thought little of Ledger. Smugness warmed me. I'd done wonders getting here unseen. A hundred percent effective. Good old Lovejoy, a real winner. And Donna already here trying to investigate on her own, the dear girl.
"We shouldn't underestimate him," she said.
A glass chinked. Decanting more sherry perhaps. I'd love a drop.
"He is a murder suspect, Donna. He has a police record. He has no resources, no finance. Where's the risk?"
Here, I thought, working it out. Hang on.
"I've been with him, Donald. He's erratic, gets distracted by sudden sentiments. Of course he's easily fooled. But there's a streak of violence in Lovejoy
that..."
In Lovejoy? Me?
Old Deamer: "The unfortunate demise of Sidney was necessary when he became so threatening after the event with Mrs. Hollohan. Lovejoy is still the prime suspect for both. You agreed at the time, my dear. Don't develop misgivings now."
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