The Judas Pair

is Lovejoy's Law for Collectors of Limited Means. Of course, if you have bags of money, head straight for a Turner seascape, a silver piece made by that astonishing old lady silversmith Hester Bateman, or a Clementi (the London maker) square piano of about 1840, and two fingers to the rest of us. But for other poorer wayfarers, my advice is to have only these three general rules.

I paid up painfully and turned to go.

'Oh, one thing.' I paused as if remembering. 'You've not such a thing as a powder flask?'

'Powder? Oh, for gunpowder?' I nodded.

'No,' she said. 'I had one a while ago, but it went very quickly.' She'd probably had it on her hands for years.

'I'm trying to make one of those wretched sets up,' I explained.

She was all sympathy. 'Isn't it hard?'

I hesitated still. 'No chance of you managing to pick one up, is there? I don't have much chance of getting one myself.'

'Well…' I was obviously treading upon that sacred confidentiality.

'I'd be glad to pay a percentage on purchase,' I offered, which made it less holy.

'I know,' she said. 'When you have money locked up in stock, trying to move stuff can be so difficult.'

We commiserated for a minute in this style. She told me she'd sold the flash to a local collector. She gave me Lagrange's address, the one I already had. I expressed surprise and gratitude and handed her my card.

'He's a very pleasant padre,' she informed me, smiling. 'A real enthusiastic collector. I'm sure he'll be glad to see you.'

'I'll either call back or phone,' I promised, and set about finding the Reverend Lagrange, collector.

Mrs. Ellison had given me the usual obscure directions which I translated by a vintage RAC roadmap. He lived about fifteen miles off the trunk road, say thirty miles. I patted my speedster and swung the handle. I'd be there in an hour and a half with luck.

The trouble was I'd not had any feminine companionship for a couple of days. It blunts any shrewdness you might possess. Your brain goes astray. It's no state to be in.

I drove toward the Reverend Lagrange's place thinking of Sheila as a possible source of urgent companionship. No grand mansion here, my cerebral cortex registered at the sight of the grubby little semidetached house with its apron-sized plot of grass set among sixty others on a dull estate. Such trees as people had planted stood sparse and young, two thin branches and hardly a leaf to bless themselves with. I parked on the newly made road where there was a slope, a hundred yards away, and walked back among the houses. A curtain twitched along the estate, which pleased me as a sign that women hadn't changed even here in this desolation. But where was the Reverend's church? Maybe he was still only an apprentice and hadn't got one. I knocked.

Ever run into a patch of mistakes? My expectations were beginning to ruin my basic optimism. Just as Muriel had turned out to be half the age I'd anticipated, here was this padre who I had supposed couldn't be more than twenty-two. He was middle-aged. Worse still—much more upsetting—I'd seen him before, walking up Muriel Field's drive as I had left. All this might not matter to you, but to an antique dealer, it's his life-blood. First approaches are everything. I suppressed my flash of annoyance and gave my I'm-innocent-but-keen grin.

'Reverend Lagrange?'

'Yes?' He was a calm and judging sort, in clerical black and dog collar, not too tidy.

'I hope I'm not intruding.' The thought occurred that it might be a feast day or Lent or something. Worse, he might be fasting. I eyed him cautiously. He seemed well nourished.

'Not at all. Can I help?'

'Er, I only called on the off chance.'

'Do come in.' He stood aside and in one stride I was in his living room. There was a cheap rolltop desk and a scatter of Cooperative furniture. He had a one-bar electric fire for the chill winter evenings. My heart went out to him.

'It isn't anything to do with, er… the soul.' I faltered. 'I'm interested in antiques, Reverend. I was at a shop —'

His eyes lit up and he put his black Bible inside his desk, sliding the lid closed. 'Do sit down, Mister… ?'

'Lovejoy.'

'Splendid name,' he said, smiling. I was beginning to quite like him. 'The shop was—?' I told him and he raised his eyes heavenward.

'Ah, yes. I bought a pistol flash there, quite expensive it was,' he said.

May heaven forgive you for that, I thought nastily. It was a steal. I would have asked five times what he paid.

'Er,' I began, weighing out those grains of truth which gospel fables. 'Don't I know you from somewhere?'

'Do you?' He seemed as careful as I was.

'You couldn't by any chance know the Fields?'

'Ah, yes.' We unbent, full of reassuring noises. 'My poor friend.'

'I visited Mrs. Field. I thought I saw you arriving.'

'And you're the gentleman in the long car. Of course. I thought I recognized you. Did you manage to get it seen to? I'm no mechanic myself, but I could tell from the noise and all that smoke—'