Mortimer, I should explain, for all that he's only a sprog, owns the entire place. That is to say, the manor house with its vast medieval acreage known as Saffron Fields, shooting rights, fens where anglers spend fortunes to drown worms in Mortimer's river, sundry canals, wharfage, estuaries, not to mention a marina near the Blackwater.
Locals defer to him because he has one of these ancient titles nobody cares about these days. He likes living in a shed by the river. Which might beg the question how come Mortimer was mighty throughout the land when I, alleged kin, was penniless and totting for a piece of old wood so I could earn a crust. Explanation: I knew his mum once. That's all I'll say. She is elsewhere; always was elsewhere.
Distant gardeners doffed caps. To my disappointment we went round to the servants'
entrance. (See? Even I'm a secret snob.) An elegant woman was standing among rows of lettuces talking to a sandy-haired homely geezer.
Mortimer went all diffident. 'I fetched Lovejoy, missus.'
'I'm Mrs Susanne Eggers,' she told me irritably. 'You're late.'
'How do,' I said, narked at Mortimer's subservience, clocking her as American, bonny, dark of hair, and sharp.
'Come in. Not you,' she said tartly to Mortimer.
'Very good, ma'am,' said the lord of the manor, not quite tugging his forelock. I drew breath to tell her to go to hell but Mortimer's quick look warned me.
'You stay outside, Taylor,' she commanded the other bloke.
She swept in. Meekly I followed.
This terse lady was just into her thirties, given to flinging out Churchillian imperatives.
I'd seen her the previous night emerging from my cottage.
'I don't suffer fools lightly, Lovejoy. Understand?'
I just said, 'Mmmh, mmmh.' Oscar Wilde's crack came to mind: America was discovered often before Columbus, but they hushed it up.
Tea was already served in the withdrawing room. She plunked herself down and gestured me to a seat.
'Tell me what you do,' she commanded.
In a way you have to admire Yanks. No wonder they're all millionaires and have ranches big as Berkshire. Okay, so other nations knock America. It's only envy. If we didn't have the USA we'd have to go around pretending there really was such a stupendous country. It's the nearest we shabbier nations get to paradise. Don't try telling me there's a lot wrong with America because I won't listen. Other countries live on dollar support. And we're all jealous of America's devil-may-care movies.
Humbly trying not to wobble my teacup and saucer, I sat and tried to please the lovely legs opposite.
'Not much, lady. I just like antiques.'
'Define a divvy.'
My tea nearly spilled. I can't drink anything hot, but tried a scalding sip.
'Er, I recognize antiques. I'm maybe just lucky.'
She nodded slowly, sipped her hellishly hot tea without a scream, but women can do that. Her eyes didn't even water.
'Is there such a thing as luck in antiques?' she countered.
'Folk say so.' I was lost. Mortimer hadn't told me a thing. Weren't children supposed to do as they were told? I'd clip the uncommunicative little sod's ear. Except, was I allowed or was that fascist nowadays? I could remember getting thrashed and being told it did me good.
'The idiot boy from the estate,' she said, replacing her empty cup. 'Who brought you.
Lives in some hovel by the river. They say he's ...' she looked askance a moment, '...
fey? That your word for luck?'
It took a minute before I realized she was speaking of Mortimer. I almost belted her one: Hey, missus, that's my son you're talking of, you ignorant cow. But I remembered Mortimer's reproving glance and kept mum. I'd played the village idiot times out of number. What was Mortimer up to? With women I always feel pig-in-the-middle, that children's game.
'People hereabouts treat him like he is special,' she told me evenly.
'If you've got him, what d'you need me for? Two lucks are overdoing it.'
'Don't be flippant! A moron is no use to me. The land agent who rented me this place –
some feudal cretin owns it; is travelling abroad – says the idiot boy finds antiques. He can distinguish forged antiques from genuine. I need such a person.'
She lit a cigarette, staring unblinkingly through the smoke, and eyed me. Not often you see eyes that hard outside a Stieff doll. Shapely, just the sort a bloke can't help wanting. A woman can entice more with a cigarette than virtually anything, but she was beginning to scare me witless. I mean, women are supposed to smile, right? And be charming or something. She seemed robotic.
'You have this divvy trick, Lovejoy.'
Want made me shrug, to show I could easily be bribed.
'Except you're unemployable, and I need an alternative to that idiot boy.' She snorted a laugh. 'So find me some better.'
