The Possessions of a Lady (19 page)

16

When you doze, questions begin. Out of nowhere come queries nobody
can answer. Like, why did they murder Mario Lanza? And how can whole
populations starve when there's a food glut? Why do poinsettia branches all pup
red leaves when you've only hooded one branchlet—they need sixteen hours of
dark for redness. Or why is everybody daft about Victorian Penny Blacks when
they're ugly as sin and they printed 72 million of the damned things anyway. No
answers.

Except sometimes there comes a glim called hope. When it does, it
lights the world, fills the heart.

'Lovejoy!' Somebody shook me awake, whispering.

'What?' I whispered in terror. 'Is he back?'

Then I came to. I was in the auction tent, not cavorting in secret
sin. I put my head between my knees until my mind landed. People were crowding
in, dealers gaily swapping IOUs.

'It's time! Isn't it exciting?'

Briony Finch. I like older women, but she was a pest. 'Aye,
gripping,' I said. 'Briony, don't create a fuss. D'you hear?'

'Of course I won't, Lovejoy!' She actually hugged herself. I had
to smile. 'It's all going perfectly! I gave your lady friend tea. Isn't she
sweet? Her own helicopter!'

'It's not fair to interrupt,' I said. 'Stay by me, okay?'

She went frosty. 'I don't need reminding how to behave, thank
you.'

'Sorry. It's just that I'm excited.' I was sleepy. 'I hope the auction
goes well, for your chip shop's sake.' That set my mouth watering. How long
since I'd eaten, days?

'Ladies and gentlemen!' Stibbert ascended the rostrum, adjusting
the pince-nez on his proboscis. He glared, restraining righteous anger at the
naked avarice before him.

'Auction rules are in the catalogue,' he intoned. 'Please remember
that strict attention is paid to the law.' I honestly didn't guffaw. 'Prices on
the fall of the hammer.'

No, really. I didn't fall about. Stibbert made it sound as if his
firm was as honest as the next—which, come to think of it, it probably was.

'Lot One,' Stibbert intoned, as Lionel's minions took station. I
was beginning to wonder what Wanda was up to. I'd expected her troops to be
mingling or mangling. So far there was nothing. Not that I'd been vigilant.
Briony squeezed my hand.

'It's really sweet of you to be so worried, Lovejoy.' She smiled,
embarrassed. 'I appreciate it. I'll try to repay . . .' She coloured. I looked
noble, because it actually was magnificent of me.

'Lot One showing here, sir!' the whiffler's traditional cry.

Old Jasp, poor chap. He held up the motoring leathers, straight
Edwardian. It lacked the helmet and goggles now. Somebody had nicked them.
Stibbert hesitated as he realised that his own catalogue listed the old
motoring set as complete. Professional skill came instantly to his aid, so he
disregarded honesty.

'Motorist's garments, Edwardian. Offers

The bidding started, rose to a moderate sum. Briony squealed
excitedly, gripping my hand. I wished she'd turn it in.

'Going . . . gone. Lady?'

'Lissom and Prenthwaite,' said Lydia's cool voice.

Which made me shrink. She must have sailed in with the throng as
I'd dozed.

'Lot Two,' intoned Mr. Stibbert, peering at us like God from a
cloud. 'A tribal African stone carving, Benin, with the name
Nigeria
engraved under its base. Start
me at ten thousand . . . ?'

Gasps from the public, plus hooded grins from the dealers.

I looked about. More anxiety, because still there was no sign of
Wanda. I trusted her, though. And I'd seen her arrive, hadn't I, in her whirly?

It was knocked down for a song, a mere three thousand. I almost
wept. It was genuine, some memento of Nigerian colonial days.

'Name, if you please, lady?'

'Lissom and Prenthwaite,' sang out Lydia, joyous.

'Lot Three. Collection of Royal postcards, dated, showing
portraits and scenes, seventy in all. Who'll start me? Can I say . . . ?'

'Quid!' one dealer guffawed, to general titters.

Briony was scandalised. 'Lovejoy! Those

Sadly I shook my head. 'They're a drug on the antiques market.'
Early postcards of old aeroplanes, buses, vehicles, would have been a different
matter.

It happened just before Lot Ten. Wanda entered, even more beautiful
than I remembered, walked down the aisle, choosing to seat herself at the
front. She took her time crossing her legs, to stifle progress. Mr. Stibbert
graciously waited, then ahemed back into action.

A reserved man, a carnation in his lapel, walked to the rostrum
and with a sad nod to the astonished Mr. Stibbert tapped the microphone.

'Excuse me, please,' he said in measured official tones. 'All
right for sound, Mr. Shepphard?'

'Just right, sir,' somebody called out gravely.

My spirits soared. I could have married Wanda on the spot, fell in
love with her all over again, that genius of crookdom and hoodery who was
saving the day, the scam unfolding before my very eyes. Dealers began to
whisper, heads down. I saw at least three rise and start to edge out, only to
halt and sink back. I saw one dealer in front of me bend to stow a brown-paper
parcel under a neighbour's seat, getting rid of evidence.

'You dropped this, mate.' I retrieved it for him.

'Ta,' he said, murder in his eyes.

'Lighting, Mr. Shepphard?' called the carnation man.

'Exact, sir,' said the same voice. 'Still rolling.'

'Thank you.' The man said something under his voice to Mr.
Stibbert, and turned to us. We were frozen, agog. 'Ladies and gentlemen. I want
to thank you all. This auction was the subject of a special TV Roving
Reportage. For the past six hours, all cars, auction items, and yes, even your
own conversations have been faithfully recorded. Our Looming Lenses will be
familiar to those who watch Channel Zen.' The man smiled. I saw Wanda's head
tilt slightly, checking every word, giving orders. This must be Bertie.
Grudgingly, I had to admit that he was playing really well.

'That's illegal!' somebody called angrily.

'No, sir. We
saw
a deal
of illegal conduct, but our procedures are quite legal. You, sir, for instance,
removed a certain item and stowed it in your car. Check that, Mr. Shepphard?'

'Yes, sir. Rewind tapes?'

'We'll see it on TV,' Bertie decided. He smiled at the protester.
'You might like to see if I've described your theft correctly.'

The audience was rising, dealers bellowing with fright. Then quiet
descended as a file of four uniformed policemen advanced to the rostrum, and
several plainclothesmen came after. Now I did look.

'Does that mean we'll be on telly?' a woman next to me asked
brightly.

'Looks like it,' I answered.

'How exciting!' she exclaimed. 'Why is everybody so cross?'

'Can't fathom some folk, love.'

‘I do apologise for this,' Stibbert was saying, lost. Bertie was
implacable.

'This whole auction was false, ladies and gentlemen. We at the TV
authority believe in fair play. So we set this up, recording the entire viewing
with our hidden cameras, to show how crooked some dealers are. We took the
precaution of sending certain honest dealers in. Those will of course hand in
the antiques they have purloined. When every motor and person has been cleared,
everyone will be allowed to leave.'

'William!' exclaimed the lady to her husband. 'A real sham!'

'Scam, missus,' I corrected politely. 'Thrilling.'

'Slowly, please, ladies and gentlemen.' Wanda's hubby pointed.
'Tables are at the exits. Those who willingly return their concealed items can
be escorted outside. Their vehicles will be searched. Is that understood?'

'Understood, sir,' minions called.

'And keep filming. I want every face, every number plate.'

'We already have most, sir. Just one or two.'

The lady near me tutted. 'They should have told us! I'd have had
my hair done. Straighten your tie, William. I don't want Esme criticising.'

'Lovejoy,' Briony asked, puzzled. 'There's something I don't quite

I got in first. 'I was just about to ask you.'

'Excuse me.' The woman was doing her makeup. 'Can we buy the
video?'

'Yes,' I replied gravely. 'I'm a TV agent, so I can take your
order. For an unbelievably small sum you may reserve your copy, post free

'Lovejoy?' Wanda's man was looking over heads to me. 'Ladies and
gentlemen. We have obtained the services of a divvy, that human scanning
machine. He will stand by the exit, and ensure by his miraculous infallible
sixth sense that no-one has any concealed antique.'

You could have heard a pin drop. Everybody turned. I rose, made my
way along the row.

'Lovejoy?' I heard Lydia gasp. She pushed towards me, blazing.
Usually she apologises every inch.

She stood before me, bosom heaving, eyes glittering. 'I might have
known!'

'Sorry, love.' Every dealer in the tent wanted to marmalise me.

'You're
always
sorry,
Lovejoy! You've ruined a whole auction!'

Humility evaporated.

'You silly mare.' I felt done for. 'That chap, remember? Wrote you
a note after you bought Lot One? He's offered to find you a matching motorist's
helmet and goggles. Am I right? He's nicked them. They're in his car.' I hadn't
seen anything, but it had to be so. On cue, a bloke bolted towards the exit,
but got wrestled to a standstill.

'A note?' Lydia, pale, rummaged in her handbag. That would take a
fortnight, so I spoke on.

'And your Nigerian stone carving. Notice that hardly anybody bid?'

'Because I judged my bid to perfection, Lovejoy!' she shrilled.
The crowd was our silent audience.

'No, love. Because a dealer had just engraved the word Nigeria
underneath.'

'During the viewing?' Still furious, but bewildered.

I was to be distracted by an old dear who wanted me to bid for
her, the Auntie Masie trick. She's over there. Her partner'll be the culprit.'

'But why deface an ancient carving, Lovejoy?' Lydia was almost too
angry. She'd tell her mum tonight, 'Oh, the
shame!
’

'Nigeria wasn't called Nigeria until a British colonial's wife
actually invented it in 1914. You see, Lydia?' I said sadly. 'You've forgotten
everything I've ever taught you. An ancient Benin carver
couldn't
have inscribed
Nigeria
on anything. Possible bidders would have tried to make sure of the date, and
would then suppose the carving a fake—and not bid. See?'

'They'd not bid?' she said in a small voice.

'Anybody fool enough to buy wouldn't be able to sell the defaced
carving. So you'd have to sell it to somebody who'd pretend to be taken in.
You'd sell the genuine piece for a song, and be glad.'

'Be glad?' she repeated, eyes huge.

It was no good. 'Think, love. The whole auction's off anyway.' I
made my way to the main exit where Wanda's men were stationed, and wearily
started listening for the faint chimes of a wondrous—and better—past.

The excited couple who'd sat next to me smiled chattily when their
turn came, smiling coyly up at Mr. Shepphard's cameras. It'd do no good. They
were all phoney, cameras, sound booms, the whole Wanda gig. But they invited me
to come and stay in their bungalow at Wells-Next-The-Sea. She promised that I'd
lack for absolutely nothing. I said ta, I'd be along a week on Tuesday.

When the marquee was vacated, 136 small antiques were found hidden
under the chairs, and another forty under the dais. Deterrents work sometimes.
Wanda came over, smiling.

'Lovejoy? Meet Bertie.'

'Wotcher, Wanda. How do, Bertie. You did superbly.'

'Naturally.' He was not glad. 'Hurry out, Lovejoy. Take up
station.'

'Eh?'

'The gate. You are needed to search cars.'

'Right.' I left the marquee with Briony. Mr. Shepphard's team was
already among the Plod.

'Lovejoy,' Briony said. It started to drizzle. She tutted in
annoyance. 'There's something I don't understand. My husband was in the police.
Are those uniforms correct?'

Halting, I raised my gaze to heaven. Why me?

'Are you well, Lovejoy?' she asked. I'd just saved her bacon, and
she quibbles about duff police?

'Feeling God's rain on my face,' I invented. 'It reminds me of
childhood, before I realised I was born to be an antique dealer.'

'How perfectly charming!' she said, misty.

The cars were queueing at the main gate. I resumed walking. 'Now
shut your teeth, you silly cow, and do as you're frigging told. Understand?'

'Lovejoy!' She trotted after me on the wet grass. 'What a horrid
thing to say!'

'Write all names and car numbers down,' I told Shepphard. 'No good
relying on cameras alone, okay?'