The Possessions of a Lady (33 page)

'Who'd you phone, Lovejoy?' She couldn't drive off without
knowing.

'My auntie,' I lied. 'Narked I don't visit.'

'Mmmh.' She drove off, looking in her mirror.

Twenty minutes I sat. The wind was rising, but no rain yet. Motors
went past. One would be Stella, checking. The town's boundaries were defined to
the eye. There shone flashes of water even. Nearer, moorland rising. Left, the
road ran along the precipitous Whimberry Hill, sic, where whinberries (also
sic) grew. Girls gathered them for the best pies on earth. Right, the road went
to Blackpool's gaudy seaside.

Sea. Morecambe Bay, where horse carriages cross the sands on the
ancient pathways at low tide. I've the mind span of a pilchard, but for
antiques.

The sea made me think of that famous diver bloke. Dorian, was it?
Hunted for a dozen years, dreaming of sunken galleons. I imagine him trudging
between banks, asking for loans, getting chucked out. Until in 1993 he finally found
the great 350-ton ship
Diana
, lost on
the way from Canton home to Madras—stuck on a reef in the Malacca Straits in
1817. With his Malaysian mates, Dorian recovered over 24,000 precious pieces of
unspoiled Chinese porcelain. I like thinking how the bankers must have changed.
Christies auctioned the loot in Amsterdam nigh 180 years after she sank, and
money came washing over the gun'ls. Mind you, rarity's only relative. With the
Diana’s
, 227,000 Chinese porcelain items
were auctioned in those Amsterdam auction rooms from four sunken ships all in a
few years. It staggers the mind—and bankrupts anybody who'd bought stupendously
rare blue-and-white Chinese porcelain before the wrecks were found. It happens.

So treasure isn't just rarity. In antiques it's things like
'signature', that identifying craftsman typicality. It's also condition,
appearance, provenance, the material of which the antique is made. With so many
duff antiques around, provenance has galactic importance. It made me think of
Briony Finch. Her antiques had stone-solid provenance: never moved from her old
sister's manor of Thornelthwaite, until I'd brought Wanda to the rescue. Now,
even as I sat in the cold wind, they were being got into order by that
harridan's team and her dry-as-dust Bertie. Wanda would go galactic if I wanted
any more changes, especially impossible ones.

The town lay in its moorland bowl.

Woman or man, never go back.

The town was the only town whose police force was imposed by
Parliament. So violent was this huddle that Queen Victoria's Royal Charter in
1838 was simply sent by post, so terrified were Whitehall mandarins of
visiting. In spite of the Chartist riots, genius flowered. Thomas Mort, 1816,
went to Australia with some notion about making the holds of ships cold, to
begin an international meat trade. Cheerful Bob Whitehead invented the torpedo.

But not everybody was a merry genius. Some were a mite eccentric,
or frankly daft. Another Bob—Leach—bobbed over Niagara Falls in a barrel, and
lived to brag. Municipal baths began here—well, first since the Romans left the
Isle of Albion. And possibly the greatest brain of them all, poor Samuel
Crompton. A sickly musician, composer, in 1779 he invented the spinning mule,
that overnight hurtled cotton out of the Dark Ages and into a new phenomenon
called the Industrial Revolution. Naturally, he was cheated into penury. Sir
Robert Peel, a swine, called at Crompton's house while he was away and bribed
Crompton's little lad George to show him where his clever daddy worked on his
secret new machine. Later, rich merchants persuaded the trusting genius to
simply reveal it to one and all. Peel brought his own wheelwrights to steal
Crompton's design. The great Member of Parliament had the frigging nerve to
offer Crompton sixpence. Poor Crompton died in penury, and his son George
finished up in the workhouse. Sir Robert Peel naturally became chief of
everything, and sang Samuel Crompton's hymns in church on Sundays.

The town was the last to give up working pregnant women and little
children to death in its coal mines, appropriately at Chain Pit, Hunger Hill.
Public hangings for nicking cloth weren't unknown, as poor James Holland
discovered the hard way. Stern values ruled. George Marsh had the nerve to
preach his own religious ideas, the bounder, and got burned at the stake for
his insolence. More riots per square yard occurred here than anywhere else on
Planet Earth. No wonder that some emigrated, and did quite well. Like 'Our Jim'
Gregson, who with a mate in 1848 found some specks of heavy metal in the USA,
and started the Gold Rush. And our Sir Arthur Rostron bravely took his
Carpathia
to help the
Titanic
, instead of ignoring the
stricken vessel—unlike that other ship I keep not mentioning.

How did I get into all that? I remember. Never go back.

Not even to Thornelthwaite?

•••

Could Wanda hack it? Worse, could I? I decided that Tinker'd had
long enough. I set off downhill among the sheep, as scared of them as they of me.
The only building between me and the town was the tangle of stone buildings of
Brannan Hey farm. Edgily I went into the yard, knocked, shouted, poked about.
Nobody. They used to ride horses here, which also are wild beasts like sheep,
to be given a wide berth.

'Wotcher, Lovejoy.'

I yelped with fright, quickly made it a cough. Tinker was sitting
on the stone steps that climbed to the upper storey, grinning.

'Frigging lunatic! You scared me.'

'Thought I was a sheep, Lovejoy?' He fell about, cackling. I sat
on the bottom step. It's all very well to joke. The drunken old sod'd been born
here at Brannan Hey among brutes. I only knew towns. 'You've got to get over
it, Lovejoy. Animals are natural.'

'Your Roadie, Tinker. Am I right?'

He sighed. 'Aye. I'll brain the little bugger, so help me. I
didn't cotton on at first.' He spat hugely to his lee. 'That's why I said
inside the ghost arch. I knew you'd never wait there. Scared of everything.'
His guffaw was a mite apologetic. His relatives, not mine, after all, were our
traitors.

'You were right. I lurked by the Queens cinema.'

That really did make him laugh, so much he fell down a step and
clung to the rail. I looked at the crumbling wood. The North's old buildings
were going to ruination. Like the old house by the chapel at Scout Hey. That
odd divvy feeling I'd had when talking to Stella had only come when I'd been
near the derelict mansion.

'Who were they, Tinker?' I asked without much hope.

'Who chucked the firebomb? Dunno, son. Not local, or I'd have
heard. The radio's on about it, police.'

A clink, glug, squeak of corked liquid calories. He didn't offer
me a swig. 'What do we do, Lovejoy? We can't stay here, if somebody's going to
crisp you. Do we go south? Stella's sale is all gunge, eh?'

'You've seen it?'

He said simply, 'I can't divvy, but it looked crap. Did you see
them young ponces? Ought to be shovelling clinker, grafting on the canals. And
them lasses dressed in tat. There ought to be a law.'

He meant the fashion students. No use reminding him that canals
were now leisure waterways. And nobody shovelled clinker any more. Fashions do
change.

'Lovejoy. Want to know what Roadie's up to?'

'Motive, now, Tinker? I've never believed in it.' I'd have sighed
again but was too tired. 'No. He doesn't matter. The Braithwaite parked outside
Amy's told me enough. I worried Roadie'd wired it somehow.'

'I wouldn't've let him, Lovejoy. You know that.' He was hurt. 'I
saw your old flame Amy with her two kiddies. You could do worse than shag her,
Lovejoy.'

Chivalric to the last, a knight in shining dross. But he'd
reminded me of a transient lust. 'Your Vyna. Is she bonny, big specs?' I
described the teacher at the Manchester museum.

'That's her. Down Under she modelled. Seen her?'

'Maybe. Where's Roadie, this minute?'

Tinker thought. 'He'll be meeting Vyna somewhere secret.' He
heaved a chuckle, set himself off coughing. 'He doesn't know this town's really
a village, every brick and stick a megaphone. It'll be in the Octagon bar.'

For five full minutes I pondered. Old Alice, the tangled tale.
Tinker coughed, spat explosively.

'This place still yours, Tinker?' I asked at last, indicating the
farm buildings. For the first time, I looked up at the old soak there on the
steps, unspeakable, unutterably frayed and aged. He was surprised, gazed about.

'The farm here? Was family once. That Shacklady. Right-half, went
queer, married my cousin Marian.' Translation: Shacklady, ex-footballer, was
now a wildlife artist of international reputation. 'Leased it for grazing.'

'He lives here?'

'No. Lake Windermere.' His voice went into contempt. 'Know what,
Lovejoy? He paints flowers. Him a grown man! Can you imagine? Our Marian helps
the daft bugger.'

'Then we'll use here.' I looked at the gaunt buildings. 'Distract
Roadie, okay?'

'Give over, Lovejoy,' he said with disgust. 'Already done it.
Look, son. Why stay?'

Who has answers to that? 'We've to buy a chip shop.'

'Oh. Reet.' One thing about Tinker. A filthy old wino, true, but
you don't get many friends like him in a month. 'Who from, Lovejoy?'

'For,' I corrected. 'A widow, Briony Finch.' I rose, dusted off my
trousers like you do for no reason. 'We'll cut downhill. I need a phone.'

'There's a bar at Smithills.' He forced a theatrically phoney
wheeze. 'I'm dry. Fancy a pint?'

We ambled towards civilisation, Tinker shuffling along
reminiscing. He'd loved some mill girl from Astley Bridge who'd sung like Jenny
Lind. He'd wed her when he'd been drunk. He was still indignant. I whiled away
the paces thinking up tall tales to tell Wanda, and what percentage she'd
accept not to club me insensible.

The nosh place was almost empty. A few parents, babes, children.
Why does everybody eat crisps, that Yanks call chips? Fashion. Chips reminded
me of stern duty. I bought Tinker three pints, went to phone, and got Bertie.
He sounded the way you'd imagine the extinct dodo would, given the opportunity.

T really wanted Wanda. It's Lovejoy.'

'She is not available.' He hissed it with hate.

'I need a chat, that's all.'

'That is untrue, Lovejoy.' More hissing. 'My wife predicted that
you would soon importune, and try to wheedle the best antiques from us.' His
voice rose to a treble, the male dodo's tweet. 'Arrangements cannot be changed.
Mrs. Finch's antiques are catalogued. The auction will be held at Proud-homme
Fortescue in King's Lynn.'

'Bertie!' I screamed just in time. He hadn't hung up. 'Who sicked
the Metropolitan Police Antiques Squad onto me about the blue lac cabinet?'

'The what?' Bertie whittered.

'The blue japanned piece,' I bawled, howling so many lies that I
frightened myself. 'I don't want to get involved. I'm out.'

Lying always makes me sweat. I was drenched, and turned—to face
the silent gaze of the entire caff. They'd heard every screech. The only sound
was Tinker's glugging as he swilled the third pint and hurried over at shuffle
speed.

'Tinker.' I smiled, cool Lovejoy fresh from a light-hearted joke
call. 'Have another?'

'It's just lies, eh?' he boomed, the soul of secrecy. 'Christ
Almighty, Lovejoy. I thought we were on the run again.'

Chortling worse than Cradhead, I induced him to booze. 'Shut it,
you noisy burke,' I said with quiet fury.

'Eh?' he bawled. 'Oh, I get yer. Nod's as good as a wink. Three
pints, love, and one for my mate.'

The phone went as I paid. The lass held up the receiver. I
strolled across.

'Lovejoy?' Wanda's voice didn't sound like an extinct bird. 'Be
precise. You have two minutes, after which. . .’

'There's no Antiques Squad, Wanda. And no blue lac japanned cabinet.
I said that to get your attention. Will you do the impossible, sweetheart?'

'No, Lovejoy.' She waited. I waited. 'What?'

'There's something truly important here. I know where, but not
what.'

'How many pieces?'

'Maybe five.' I was really down. The worst moment of my life. I
could only think of Old Alice's features.

She thought for so long I asked was she still there. 'What's this
"impossible", Lovejoy?'

'Fetch Briony Finch's antiques up here. For auction tomorrow.'

'You're off your fucking head, Lovejoy,' said Wanda, ever demure.
'It can't be done. My drivers alone . . .'

'I'll give you . . .' Desperate, I lowered my voice. 'I'll give
you me, Wanda.'

'You, Lovejoy?' It wasn't as daft as it sounded. Any dealer would
give their fingers for a genuine divvy to work free, tell them which antiques
were faked a week ago. To my astonishment, she hesitated. 'You in trouble?
Only, two thickos came by, asking. Blanks. Even Bertie was alarmed.'

'Me? No, love.' Peter Pan could put the frighteners on Bertie.
Blank means unknown. Some chance creditors, I expect. 'Honest. I'm clean. You
ask . . .' I could hardly give Cradhead the Plod as a reference. 'Anybody,' I
finished lamely.