'How come she doesn't know that Mortimer owns the place?'
'How come you don't know, Lovejoy?' he accused, then nodded understandingly. 'You're trying to keep out of the way, is that it?' And added, 'The boy's agents in St Edmundsbury do the letting. You know country folk, Lovejoy. They can keep mum for ever, if they want.'
Question two: 'There's some auctioneers who're twitchers, isn't there?'
'One bloke,' Paul corrected. 'He's a serious birdwatcher. You know him. Nice geezer, Lanny Langley-Willes. Sotheby's, Christie's, the rest.' He leaned close, the ultimate revelation. 'Birdwatchers hate being called twitchers, Lovejoy.'
And now the difficult question. 'Paul. What's Jenny looking for lately?'
His features didn't change when I mentioned his wife, but heartache always shows through.
'Regency and Victorian furniture. And some portrait.'
And now I really was worried. Antique dealers aren't secret. The trade can also be very laggardly. Yet all of a sudden the local dealers were ganging up to march on Rome, viz.
me. Why? Something was going on, and I'd not heard about it. Worse, the slowest-selling antiques are always excellent Regency and early Victorian furniture.
Check the auction records. It's true. Even the sale of a single scroll-pedestal card table would be talked of for days.
Suddenly I wanted to ask if Jenny was still shacking up with Aspirin, but tactfully shelved the question. 'Does anybody know what the Eggers are after?'
'Some old portrait with a funny name. I'm just glad I'm not an antique dealer.' He looked at the coins I pushed across the table. 'Keep it, Lovejoy.'
'It's your change. Put it in your bucket. And ta.'
And I went in search of Rio Dauntless. If you want the truth, first find a liar. Nobody lies like Rio Dauntless, except me.
5
ESCAPE ALWAYS LOOKS greener on the other side of the fence. I sat on my doorstep trying to work out exactly what fence. My ancient Austin Ruby was just visible among tall weeds. Maybe I could sell it? Except people complain because it lacks an engine, selfish sods.
Parenthood? Kids can keep it.
Children, I'd realized in my swift introduction to fatherhood, get into trouble (e.g.
leasing Saffron Fields to loony Yankees) then drag you in so that it becomes your fault (e.g. ruining the antiques trade). And finally they concoct barmy schemes to make everything worse – 'Hire actors, Lovejoy,' etc, etc.
I told the scrounging bird life, 'I'm off. Fend for yourselves, okay?' I ignored the reproachful stare of Crispin my hedgehog and left the lot of them to it.
The town nearest our village is ancient. Even its New Town area is old, so named because in AD 67 Queen Boadicea of the Ancient Brit Iceni tribe encouraged urban planning by razing the entire joint. I was glad to be leaving greenery and zooming back to civilization. Towns are safer. Sure, irate tribal queens may pillage and burn, but that's not half as creepy as a forest, it it?
A mile along the main road I got a lift from a pretty lady in a little whirry motor. She invited me for coffee. Eager to please, I accepted. Disappointingly it turned out to be a Salvosh sing-along hymn session in the Drill Hall. I didn't mind. In fact I felt quite good, swelling her numbers and doing my bit for God. He repaid my generosity by providing some cold bread pudding (which I can't stand) and fruit flan, which I like but which was horrible. I promised really sincerely to attend every Thursday for ever and ever. See?
Towns help. Countryside can do you in.
I wish I'd remembered that.
The market was just packing up when I got down Scheregate Steps among the barrows and awnings, and got hailed by Vi Anaconda on her market stall. She sells dry goods, which means dross like ribbons, children's plastic toys and suchlike tat. She sings – I use the term loosely –in taverns at night, doubling her money by brief sojourns in drinkers' motors before wending her way homeward like a good girl. It's where she gets her nickname. I like Vi.
'Wotcher, Vi.'
'Hello, Lovejoy.' She eyed me from beneath her striped cloth and the straggly balaclava she wears. 'Surprised to see you're still in one piece.'
'Misunderstanding, Vi.' My wayward brain talked me on. 'Hey, Vi. Why do birds'
nicknames come last, and blokes' nicknames come first?'
'What the toss you on about?' She was stuffing her items into black bin bags.
'Well, Mirrorman Tate is Mirrorman, right? But you're Vi Anaconda. If you were a bloke, we'd call you Anaconda Vi, see?'
She paused to sigh. 'What're you after, Lovejoy?'
'I'm broke. I need—'
'A team of actors, right? Tina Maria Stevens says she'll do it.'
Everybody knows my business, except me.
'Er, look, love, I don't want birds.' Mortimer was only fifteen, for God's sake. Time enough for females when he
