The Possessions of a Lady (34 page)

'These antiques, Lovejoy. You've really no idea?'

'Honest,' I said, hoping I wasn't lying again. 'They're not mine
to give, Wanda.' Heart sinking further at the thought of slaving in Wanda's
galley, so to speak, I explained about the fashion show, the 'precious antiques
auction' that was tat.

'Never get involved with fashion, Lovejoy,' she said sharply.
'They're plonkers. That Thekla's combing the world for you like she's on heat,
silly mare.'

'A beautiful shared thought, Wanda.' I didn't want past failures.
I was knee-deep in new ones. Were those two investigators Thekla's hirelings?
It'd be my cottage. Mortgage people never give up.

'Tell you what, Lovejoy. I'll do it, on one condition.' Here it
came. 'Mrs. Finch's terms stand. I get your five cached antiques. Understood?'

My soul peered hopefully out of my boots.

'Thanks, Wanda, love.' I felt really true honest love for Wanda.
Her beauteous spirit was what made women divine.

'Plus you get me a blue lac cabinet. Deal?'

'Deal,' I told the vile scheming bitch. I gave her the address.
I'd have to kill her, or something. A blue lac Shrager cabinet or the
Koh-i-Noor, I'd have tried to nick the Mountain of Light diamond any time. I
was now bound to Wanda for life.

Tinker went spare.

'You mean that Shrager cabinet?' He actually said Shraggy, as we
all do. 'You're frigging mental.'

'Don't.' I despaired. 'I'm papering an auction, supporting a
fashion show, funding some centre. I'm broke.'

'There's only one blue lac, i'n't there?'

'Yes and no.' He inhaled, barmy suggestions on the way. 'Some
Connecticut Yanks bought it, last anybody heard.'

The Shraggy 7 is one of the classic cases in antiquery. Like the
Great Dud Faberge Egg, like Piltdown Man, or the infamous Lorenzo Lotto trick,
some are transparent frauds. Some, though, are ugly, murky. However famous,
they're in that grey area where angels fear to tread. The ultimate nasty tale
is the notorious Shrager Blue Lac Cabinet.

Once upon a time, in 1922, when flappers in cloche hats raved in
Mayfair, a bloke called Adolf Shrager moved to posh Westgate (where folk still
tell tall tales). Posh manor down by the Isle of Thanet, Kent seaside, all
that. Off goes Shrager to buy antiques. But once he'd got them, he sulked.
Lovely antiques, sure, but
all that
money!
He'd over-spent.

So he decides to sell off a few, to raise the £25,000 he still
owed. Shrager asks Herbert Cescinsky, greatest antiques celebrity- of all time,
to tea. 'What's this blue lacquered cabinet worth?' Shrager asks, casual.
Cescmsky the expert says, 'Fake, old bean.’ Shock, et stunning cetera, because
the dealer who'd sold it was the famous Basil Dighton, Savile Row's poshest.

Lawyers manned the ramparts. Money was at stake but, ghastlier
then, that other fraud known as gentlemanly honour. Suddenly, millions who'd
never heard of blue lacquer were devouring the trial's lurid details. Shrager
sued the antique dealer Dighton. He'd been sold a fake, he claimed. Dighton
polished his finger nails and sighed. Nonsense! Savile Row dealers simply
don't
.

The question was blunt: is the Shraggy Blue Lac Cabinet fake or
genuine? It was bonny—slots for letters, drawers for pens, 'oriental'
decoration, the whole monty as they say. But was it a true Queen Anne blue lac
cabinet, or dud?

Fake? Genuine? Sir Edward Pollock KC, the 'Official Referee', gave
Dealer Dighton the verdict. Shrager was condemned, his reputation in tatters.
Antique dealers everywhere preened themselves and toasted justice, ho ho.

Why is the Blue Lac Cabinet Mystery so famous? You hear such
stories eighty times a day. Even back in 1923 when Pollock delivered his stem
summary disputes were ten a penny.

Well, Sir Edward Pollock was an honest judge, but should his
smart-aleck nephew Ernest
really
have
been Dealer Dighton's counsel? And how come Sir Edward suddenly leapfrogged the
queue of judges? Somebody definitely tampered with the list.

There are two other rather sick questions. Was the Blue Lac
mystery a case of society's grandees ganging up on this outlander? And, two,
wasn't Shrager the millionaire who'd made a vast fortune in cowardly Great War
profiteering. whom society ought to punish as a dastardly cad? Me, I think it's
none of the above. Everything simply comes down to antiques and the people who
love them.

There's one moral that maybe outweighs all. It's this. Herbert
Cescinsky, who remained resolute—the Blue Lac was a fake—smouldered on. Through
1923 and the frolicking Twenties, through the Great Crash, our Herbert
furiously gnawed his cheek. Finally he could contain himself no longer. He
wrote a famous book. Everybody should read
The
Gentle Art of Faking Furniture
. A mint copy of the 1931 original will cost
you an arm and a leg. I love it. It's crammed with common sense with acid
stirred in. The dedication alone's worth it: 'To the memory of the late Adolf
Shrager, who acquired a Second-hand but First-rate knowledge of both ENGLISH
LAW AND ANTIQUE FURNITURE by the simple process of PAYING FOR IT in 1923 . . .'
And Cescinsky adds caustically, 'READER DO THOU NOT LIKEWISE'. Meaning the Blue
Lac Trial was a fix.

I'd promised Wanda a Queen Anne blue and gold japanned cabinet
exactly like the notorious Blue Lac itself.

'I'll think of something, Tinker,' I said.

'You don't pay Queen Anne prices for Mary Anne,' the old soak
groused.

'Shut your teeth. Have I ever let you down?'

'Don't be frightened, son,' he said. 'We'll get by. One thing.
That Thekla's got some blanks trailing you. Two turned up here, asking.'

Typical of Thekla to hunt me. Women know vengeance best. I sighed.
'Deflect them, Tinker. I've had it.'

'Right.' He spat downwind. 'Don't be scared.'

That made me wild. I yelled, 'Shut your gums, you daft old bum.
I'm not scared.'

'No, course not.' And we went our way. I'd a long journey.

32

Tinker listened to my instructions as I boarded the old
Braithwaite before dusk. I was sick to death of telephones, so told him to make
three calls. The vital ones were to Baz and Florsston.

'Basil-the-Donkey will know where a blue lac fake is available.' I
ignored Tinker's protests. 'He's the records man. Pay him,' I said airily,
'with an IOU.'

By now low on money, I booked out of the Man and Scythe. Dobber,
who I'd been at school with, told me Aureole was in town hunting me. 'Great,
Dobber,' I told him. 'Tell her I've gone to Leeds, eh?'

The one thing that's improved in this creaking old kingdom is the
road system. An unbelievable four hours later I roared into the garden of
Florsston Valeece, materials expert.

The giant was humming, pleasantly arranging flowers in a vase. His
workshop lights were on.

'Lovejoy!' he cried, no preamble. 'It's in hand!'

'Er, what exactly?'

'That utterly
hideous
fake blue lac Japanese bureau. If that's Queen Anne, then so am I! Your barker
Tinker phoned from some
ghastly
outpost near Hadrian's Wall
whimpering
.
Baz located it. I've perspired
fountains
of
gore
, and got it here at
no notice
! Take it
away
. Who on
earth
could
live
. . .' etc.

'Great, Florssie. You're a pal. I owe you.' I ignored his sharp
glance, because I had a question. 'I saw a Victorian dress in a museum display
case.' I described it as best I could. 'The material was marked
Tuss
and
T. Ara
. High neck, fitted bodice, brownish, shiny.' I passed him
the catalogue I'd brought. He ignored it. 'There's no photograph of that one.'

'Shiny, was it?'

'The shawl wasn't, much, except for threads in it.'

'Say no more. It was tussore silk, Lovejoy. Always fawnish to
chestnut, brought in from China and India. That shawl sounds rather a risk.
Arachne, they called it, or tulle arachne, from 1831 on. Has frightful gold
threads in silk.'

My throat thickened. This was it. There had been a brooch on the
dress.

'Pretty valuable frock, eh, Florsston?'

'Lovejoy,' he sighed. 'Excellently preserved Victorian dresses
like that are hardly worth the price of a decent meal.'

'Is that so,' I said. The cheap brooch, pink glass? I was suddenly
desperate to see the whole display, frantic to get onto the north road.

Then Nicola called from the kitchen. He beamed, Ollie Hardy
quadrupled, whispered, 'She's been victualling the fridge, poor cow'.

'Er, why, exactly?' I was lost. The blue lac piece stood there,
clearly Victorian, caused a dullish chime. It had started life a dull mandarin
red, with gold highlights. Probably Elston, faker of Penrith.

He simpered roguishly. 'Before you take her.'

'Look, Florssie

His face grew so savage I recoiled. 'No, Lovejoy. You look! You
wanted a cabinet. I got it. Our deal stands. The deal was, I do your rush job,
you remove Nicola.'

'I didn't mean
this
job,
Florssie! I meant a scam to catch a rival divvy.' Nicola was calling, the
casserole's for Thursday and suchlike.

He went impassive. 'In the antiques game, Lovejoy, you promise,
you deliver. Your barker speaks for you, you pay on the nail. Want me to send a
hundred faxes? Everybody from Mr. Sheehan to Rozzar? Every dollop broker,
auction house?' I swallowed. Rozzar's a psycho. Big John Sheehan's a neat churchgoer.
Both are good—as friends. 'Five minutes, you won't be able to buy a pasty with
a gold ingot.'

'What must I do, Florsston?' I asked humbly, hating him. I'd only
wanted a fake cabinet, for God's sake, and somehow started a global
anti-Lovejoy creed.

His smile mellowed. 'Simple. Take Nicola. Sound in mind and limb,
an unused bargain.' He closed his eyes, swayed, a wobbly Alp. ‘I can't stand
her a minute longer. Poor bitch actually
likes
Laura Ashley curtaining.' He moaned. 'I've
suffered
,
Lovejoy.'

'What happens afterwards?' I really wanted to know. Sooner or
later Aureole, Thekla, Faye, the rest, would catch me. I wanted fewer
complications, not more.

He carolled gleeful culinary reassurance to Nicola, then
whispered, 'For me a little Italian holiday, with a friend.'

‘I can't take Nicola. Wanda has. . .’

His glacial silence chilled me. He purred, 'You create
difficulties, Lovejoy.'

'Please don't lumber me, Florsston. I'm in real trouble.
Somebody's tried to do me in. Like Spoolie.'

'Nicola!' he trilled, angelic. 'Lovejoy's ready!'

She entered, flustered. 'Yes, dear. You will look after yourself?
I'll only be gone two days.'

'Nicola, don't
fuss!
’ He
waggled sausage fingers at me. 'Be warned, Lovejoy. Our deal
insists
that you take
complete
care of this little dear!
Understand?' I said nothing. He boomed, 'Understand?'

'Aye, Florsston.' It took me minutes to load the blue lac and
cover it. I hefted Nicola's case.

'Go now, both of you.' He shed tears, admiring himself in a
mirror. ‘I can't
stand
goodbyes.'

Nicola waved at the house. Florsston slammed the door.

Tact was called for. 'Er, he's probably sad, love.'

‘I know,' she said, misty. 'He conceals his emotions. He said the
quicker I left, the less pain.' She glowed. 'Isn't that sweet, Lovejoy?'

'Really, er, sweet. What's he told you to do?'

'Oh, this sideboard?' She opened her handbag. 'I've Mr. Baz's
invoice . . .'

'Ta, love.' I took the paper, let it blow out of the window, and
away.

There was a light in Brannan Hey. Nicola shivered, but she'd been
doing that all the journey. I pulled in among the outhouses. Moorland quiet
rushed at us.

'Is this it, Lovejoy?' She alighted, exclaiming at the squelch.
'It's very remote.'

'It's the only place we've got.'

'You
live
here?'

'It's a friend's. That'll be him.'

Tinker opened the door, grinning welcome. He could hardly stand,
and stank of ale.

'Wotcher, Lovejoy. This the bird we've got to dump?'

'No, Tinker,' I said quickly. He and Florsston must have chatted
some more. 'Florsston Valeece's lady Nicola is here to help.' I smiled weakly
at Nicola. 'Mr. Dill, my assistant.'

'The place smells
musty!
’
She moved timorously in.

Tinker had lit oil lanterns. A peat fire burned smokily. White
dust sheets covered what furniture had been left, but the farmhouse's rafters,
stonework, ancient beams and the living area's wooden flooring made it a deal
better than I was used to. And draughts are refreshing. I leant on the jack
spit's iron hook to poke the fire.