The Possessions of a Lady (13 page)

'Sod off, Lovejoy.'

A woman's magazine lay on the bench, fashion models trying to look
like they enjoyed starving so their hips and shoulders showed bones. No
breasts, prop legs. The government should make them eat.

'Ah, Lovejoy? In please.'

The office held silver cups from golf tournaments, for this was
the abode of one Cradhead, a ploddite of renown. Besuited, floppy fair hair,
talks funny from the silver spoon in his mouth, a Chief Constable candidate if
ever I saw one.

'Wotcher, Mr. Cradhead.' The lads rhyme his name with Spithead.
His commonest word is 'ah', but you've to watch out. 'Mr. Drinkwater on leave?'

'Ah, yes.'

'Ah, pity.' Drinkwater's his boss, eminently deceivable. This
smarm isn't. 'Who'd I kill, Craddie?'

'Please sit down.'

That deflated me. I'm not used to civility. I dithered. He wagged
a cautionary finger. I sat.

'I got a Pascal engine yesterday, Lovejoy.' He smiled at my
surprise.

'Who copied it?'

The Paradox, as it's known in the antiques trade, was knocked up
about 1642 by one Blaise Pascal, a youth eager to lessen his dad's eyestrain. All
France fell about laughing—a
mechanical
calculator? Zut alors, what would bank clerks do all day? But Pascal persisted.
Early versions of his calculating 'engines' are rare. I swallowed, lust rising.

'Modern, I'm afraid, Lovejoy, about 1920.'

Maybe I could copy it in ivory or bone, do ebony work to convince
the unwary ... I realised I was licking my lips.

'Here?' So casual I almost slid off the chair.

'I'll give it you, if you're honest in return.'

The trouble is I'm a scruff. Ask anybody. I was brought up in
places where this lot'd starve. Tinker too, hence the bond. But origin's a
handicap. Like, Cradhead is Oxford, Brigade of Guards, all that. If I'd his
background, a chummy chat would have solved all problems. But for shoddy me
Cradhead was proposing a serious contract. Default, I'd find the contract
written in blood. Guess whose.

'I perceive your dilemma, Lovejoy.' His elegant hands tipped to
show cleverness. 'You resent my status. Has it never occurred to you that I
might envy you yours?'

'No.' I was uneasy. Cradhead was no nerk.

'Think.' He counted to ten, letting my plebeian cells clod-hop to
a synapse. 'You are at home with scruffs, and they with you. Me?' He chortled,
really did chortle like they do in kiddies' comics. 'Layabouts clap eyes on me,
they know instantly that I'm not of their world.'

Like me in a police station, perhaps? I didn't speak. This sounded
like a real deal. I was the innocent non-murderer, so how come the Plod needed
me?

'To pass yourself off among us lowlifes, Craddie, dress up and
lurk. Sherlock Holmes did.'

'Ah, there's the rub.' He tilted his chair. I was beginning to
miss Drinkwater, slug thug of the old school. 'You're the fashioneer, Lovejoy.'

Fashion was starting to nark me. I wish to God I'd never met
Thekla.

'Fashion? One bird has me ditched. Another has hysterics and
accuses me of murder. Oh, aye.' I was bitter. 'I'm your fashion expert. Want a
frock?'

'Don't, Lovejoy. The doctors say he won't die.'

Pity. I might've got off. It was innocence landed me in this. 'The
Pascal?'

'Ah, I want your assistance, Lovejoy.'

Now I knew he was up to no good. 'Me?'

'Just pass on what fashion world gossip you hear.' He smiled
disarmingly, clean teeth, manicured nails glittering. Racehorse owner,
probably. Maybe Cradhead had a girlfriend keen on fashion?

'That it, Cradhead? No catch?'

He opened his hands, eyebrows raised.

'Your trouble, Lovejoy, is that you are untrusting.'

Asking me for fashion tips is like saying report the apogees of
Saturn. 'What if I'm wrong? I can't talk their words.'

He chortled again. I began to wish Lewis Carroll had never
invented the bloody word.
Alice in
Wonderland
used to put the fear of God in me.

'Yes or no, Lovejoy? Concur, and you may depart.'

'I concur. May I depart?'

A nod, more amusement. I ahemed, made for the door, ready to halt
if he beckoned.

'Oh, Lovejoy.' Wearily I halted. 'A young Aussie lady's roaming
about, obscure cousin of Mr. Dill. If you catch a glimpse, do ring.'

'Course. Pleased to.' I wish every promise was as easily made.
'Er, Craddie? The Pascal.'

'Third drawer down. Bureau.' Already he was immersed in documents.
Nervy, I went to open the drawer, apologising every inch. He ignored me.

It was ivory, with metal innards. A replica, yes, made about 1900
or so. You get toy ones from the 1930s, and demo copies. But this was a memento
of a great mind, done with skill by Victorian craftsmen. I moaned.

'It's yours, Lovejoy. Sorry about the plastic bag.'

Carefully, I held on to sanity. Balancing myself, I asked, 'Eh?'

'Yours, Lovejoy. Token of appreciation from the police. Cheerio,
old chap.'

Now, nobody says 'old chap' nowadays. That dated slang comes only
in American thrillers trying to be olde worlde and, I've heard, as mockery in
posh schools. Maybe he wanted to insult me? I glowered. He grinned, not a
chortle. I lifted it reverently, tried to speak, couldn't.

He didn't haul me back. I strolled very slowly past George, giving
them every chance. He snored gently. I shook his arm, asked was it okay to go.
I reached the High Street, marvelling. A present, for God's sake, from the Old
Bill? For agreeing I'd help them out if their organdie and lapel trims came
unstuck? I made it to the door of the Three Cups by the old Saxon church.

Tinker was there. I gave him the Pascal engine, told him what it
was.

'Get it to Vinegar. He's got a few quid. But don't take any
antiques in exchange—especially don't take any Roman seals.'

He cackled, suspecting. 'Right, Lovejoy. Did you phone that
Stella? A frigging nuisance.'

'Sell this Pascal, and my ambers, to Vinegar for what you can get.
They're under my doorstep in a tin. I've a feeling we'll need money.'

We'd have had a nice chat then, but I was assaulted by Aureole,
who tore in wanting to scratch my eyes out.

'Lovejoy! You bastard!' she screeched, first clue that she was
near.

'Aureole! Dwoorlink!' I did my pleased smile, ducking. Trouble is,
you can't clock a woman. You've just to grin and bear it while they lash and
claw. It's called equality.

'You ruin my trade, get me in bad with a wealthy client. . .’

That's Aureole. Anything going wrong is my fault. Anything goes
right, she wants praise.
I
defaulted
on her system? When I'd invented it, made her a rich woman for doing sweet sod
all? And Faye her client had me clinked for nothing. I backed out into Trinity
Street, the lads jeering.

'Lovejoy? Pay up, pal.'

'Dinsdale?' I yelped disbelief.

The George's security officer stood there, bigger in the gloaming.
Aureole screamed with delight.

'Supper, wine. You didn't pay, Lovejoy.'

'You hawked me to the peelers,' I yelled. 'And the lady was
paying. Right, Aureole?'

'No, Mr.. Dinsdale.' Aureole was thrilled things were going her
way. 'Lovejoy booked my lady friend.'

'I didn't!' I cried. A crowd stood about, enjoying the show,
drinkers looking out hoping for a scrap. 'Aureole! You owe me that display
stand!'

'That rare mahogany Berkley Horse, Lovejoy?' She smirked. I gaped.
How did she know? I'd told nobody. Or had I? 'I sold it hours ago. You were
going to cheat me!'

'This way, Lovejoy.' Dinsdale grabbed my arm and frogmarched me
off. We got as far as Cutler Alley where we couldn't be seen from the tavern
doorway. He said into the darkness, 'Mr. Boxgrove?'

A shadow thickened under the gas lamps.

'Great, Dinsdale.' Notes crinkled, and Dinsdale marched away.
'Want a job, Lovejoy?'

'You already offered me, Roger. No, ta.'

'I've rescued you from a fate worse than Aureole.' He walked with
me. 'I know where Tinker's relative is.'

'His Aussie cousin's girl?'

'In fact, I want you to follow her, Lovejoy, and I'll foot the
bill. Only take you a day. She's left town by train.'

One problem, I can cope. Two, I manage. But three bend my brain.
Now four? How come Aureole suddenly knew about the Berkley Horse—and had
instantly sold it? Not the mystery divvy again. I couldn't stand it. My temples
throbbed.

'What's Tinker's relative got to do with you, Rodge?'

'Can I explain in confidence?' He began without waiting. He
strolled into the High Street. I blundered after, enjoying my migraine. 'I've
been seeing a married woman, Lovejoy. I saw her off at the station.' Lydia had
mentioned Rodge at the railway station. He shrugged. 'She got upset, flounced
off. Know what I mean?'

'I've heard they do,' I said sourly. 'So?'

'She should've taken some bone relics for a customer, waiting for
them.' He waxed indignant. 'She left me, egg all over my face. What could I
do?'

'Use the train guard?' I was beginning to see. He'd palmed the
phoney bones off onto Vyna Dill, as messenger.

'Guards won't, not since they changed the railways. Then I heard
this girl book to the same destination. I asked her to deliver my parcel, for
the fare.'

'Where did she go?' I asked, too casual.

'Lovejoy. Go for me, just check that it arrived, then I can cash
the cheque. Stay there a few hours, in case, then you've earned your gelt. What
d'you say?'

'Why don't you phone him?' If Rodge would only mention where the
girl had gone, I could simply tell Tinker and resume my normal life of penury.

'No names. . .’

No pack drill, I finished for him silently. Antique dealers never
reveal a customer for nothing. Yet it sounded contrived, like he was desperate
to get me out of town. Ridiculous.

'All you do, Lovejoy, is see if there's any message for Mr.
Boxgrove.'

'How d'you know she was Tinker's missing lass?'

'Accent. And that photo Tinker has. Her brooch said Vyna.'

Three reasons is often enough.

'Okay, Rodge. Tinker will go after her, do your job.' Then I could
go and lie down in the dark. Nobody gets headaches like mine, nobody.

'No, Lovejoy.' And he smiled pityingly when I drew breath to
demand why. 'Tinker always gets thrown out of hotels. Won't you do it, for your
pal?'

'If Tinker wants to come too, you'll pay?' I didn't want a teenage
girl on my hands. I didn't want to find her at all, come to that.

'You, Tinker, and that Roadie?' He wheedled, ‘I paid your bill at
the George carvery, Lovejoy. And got you off Aureole's hook.'

Who stole my Berkley Horse, I grumbled to myself. A bnef journey
might save my sanity, though.

'Look, Rodge. Who didn't get killed?'

'Faye's bloke, Viktor Vasho, Liverpool fashion designer. Old
dresses on new crumpet.'

'Old?' My migraine lessened. Antique dresses would make even
Thekla's cachectic models look attractive.

'Pathetic sod, that Viktor Vasho.' We reached the Welcome Sailor,
stood outside its honky-tonk din. 'Is that a job for a grown man?'

'It wasn't me nigh killed him, Rodge,' I said. 'Honest.'

'I know, Lovejoy,' he said, amused. 'It was me.'

'You? Er, right, right.'

We went into the saloon bar. Eve flashed us ales before we'd sat.
Tinker and his charge weren't in, but Kima— Regency porcelains and
furniture—smiled and waggled her fingers enticingly. She's new in from Hong
Kong. I'm crazy about her. Has connections in Canton, mixes genuine porcelain
with fakes that are so realistic it takes a real divvy like me to suss them.
She holds sales in her house in St Peter's Road near the garage. I'd have maybe
got closer, if my head had been on instead of somewhere in space. I waved back.

'This Viktor Vasho, Rodge,' I said, checking nobody was in
earshot. 'Er, you nearly killed him?'

'Mmmh.' He was quite offhand, called, 'Here, Eve. Any messages
from Lowestoft?'

'No, Mr. Boxgrove.'

'Bloody suppliers,' he groused. 'Hold us honest workers to
ransom.'

'You tried to kill this Viktor Vasho bloke?' I wanted this honest
worker to get it straight.

'Not in so many words, Lovejoy. Give me credit for human
compassion.'

'Oh, sure. Why?'

'It's Faye, Lovejoy.' His face went misty, his soul—always
assuming—off into dreamland. My mind went oh-ho. Love is where things go wrong.
'Me and Carmel, okay. But Faye— I'd give anything.'

It happens to me too. Women have that effect. We can't calculate
like women, when passion raises its benighted head. Somehow they seem able to
time the game. We can't, just go headlong.