She parked her car by the war memorial. In Jackson’s posh restaurant I borrowed a coin and, making her wait with me, phoned Big John Sheehan’s number. I kept my smile on so Janie’d know there was nothing really the matter.
“Hello? Lovejoy. Tell Big John I’ve gone bankrupt and been bailiffed. They’ve taken the Unterberger. Say I’m sorry. I’ll do a replacement soon as I can. Okay?”
The bloke on the other end grunted in disbelief. “You lost your frigging marbles, Lovejoy? He’ll have you crisped.”
“Just pass the message,” I said blithely, my throat thick with fright, and rang off.
We went inside for breakfast. Janie had a slice of toast. I had three fried everything against the coming cold. She talked of problems of hemlines and accessories following last week’s stupendous London show (“Can you imagine, white taffeta back again?”) while I wondered how much blood you lose knifed in an alley.
“Janie, love,” I said later when she’d finished buying me a jacket and arguing what ties went with blue. “I want you to stay with me all day, okay?”
“You do?” This was unprecedented. Her lovely eyes rounded.
“If we’re to be… well, permanent.” Janie’s insistence that we reveal all and wed was naturally crazy, but this is only par for the course. The last thing on earth I wanted was her powerful hubby raking over my criminal coals for nicking his pretty rich wife. He’d sentence me to a million years, consecutive.
“Oh, darling!” She went all misty.
In life there are some steps you have to take even though they lead to heartbreak. But heartbreak for one is survival for another. Postponement of my doom being the only tactic, I kept Janie close all that terrible last day.
So I took her into the antique shops, my natural habitat. The first encounter was typical. I’d selected Harry Bateman on East Hill because he’s even thicker than most antique dealers, which is book-of-records stuff, and I urgently wanted Janie to get the message. Judging from the instant furtiveness on Harry’s face, word had already reached him that I was (a) destitute, and (b) on the run from BJS.
“Wotcher, Harry,” I said, all cheery. “I’ve come about that mulberry-design paperweight, Pantin factory post- 1850. You can’t teach them Parisians anything about art glass, eh?” My convincing chuckle proved unconvincing. I started explaining to Janie the loveliness of these beauties, but Harry spilled his tea. He was visibly trembling.
“Don’t tell me, Harry,” I said with repellent heartiness. “You’ve decided to sell that Yoruba tribal voodoo cult fetish carving, right?” African folk art nowadays is costlier by the hour.
Janie stood frostily by. She hates anything to do with the trade. She thinks antiques come from Bond Street.
“Lovejoy,” Harry croaked. “Piss orf, okay?”
“Only when we’ve settled that Lower Saxony gilt bronze of Saint Thaddeus, Harry.” I told Janie, “Imagine—1350 a.d.! Beautiful as the day it was—”
With a groan Harry ran out of the door and off up East Hill like a hare.
“What extraordinary behavior, Lovejoy!”
“He must have remembered something. Let’s try the Arcade.” I set off with her, heart in my mouth in case Big John’s goons decided the time was ripe. Every car that passed had me cowering. Wisely I walked on the inside, keeping Janie between me and any possible assassin. No good telling my lovely companion that the antiques I’d mentioned to Harry would total something like a modern light plane. She looked at me curiously.
“He seemed terrified of you, Lovejoy. Have you been up to something?”
“Me?” I gave her my full innocence.
She gave me a hug. “Sorry, darling.”
From then on we became less jubilant. Gradually, as we maneuvered through my antiques contacts, Janie grew quiet. I called on them all. Margaret Dainty, lame but lovely, warned me slyly when she thought Janie wasn’t looking; nervous Lily; Jessica the ferocious grab-all; Mannie the clock dealer; and Big Frank from Suffolk even ducked past me as we emerged from the Arcade. By then I was desperate. Surely even Janie should have cottoned on by now.
We’d been at it four hours—quieter and quieter—before Janie walked firmly into the Castle Park’s rose garden and sat us down on a bench. Dawning-realization time.
“Lovejoy,” she said. “Something’s the matter, isn’t there?”
“Mmmmh?” I gave back. From our bench we faced the war memorial. A dark saloon was parked next to Janie’s long low sleekster. My heart was hammering. Big John was about to display his irritation. A squat bloke was calmly strolling past.
“Everybody said no to you.” Earnestly she pulled me to face her. “And they’re frightened. They couldn’t get rid of you fast enough, even though you’re a divvy, Lovejoy.”
Her car erupted as the saloon pulled away. I actually felt the blast waft heat on my eyeballs. Sound engulfed us both. I was up and running before I knew what I was doing, dragging Janie one-handed as the shouts and fire roar started. A smoke pall slanted across the garden. I tore out, down a pub yard and across into the old churchyard opposite, only pausing for breath when we’d reached the porch. Sirens began, folk running, away from the inferno. She was tugging to be let go.
“Lovejoy! My car! It exploded! What’s happening?”
“Tell you in a minute.”
We recovered as the mayhem took on a hectic order. Police arrived to quell the traffic’s rebellion. Crowds were gathering to stand in awe—where did they all come from?
We watched the burning car. Janie was looking from the smoke to me and back. The Hollytrees is an eleventh- century church now a folk museum. To Big John, superstitious if homicidal, its sanctuary would be respected.
“Darling.” Janie was searching for answers in my pallor. At least the penny had dropped that there was actually a question, thank God. “Are you in difficulties?”
