knot of tension in my belly at the sight of him. It pleased me. My crusading zeal had only momentarily tired because of so many false leads. Here was one I relied on to give me a few more details.
He gave me a photocopied list of the Field sale and every single invoice to do with it. In his own clumsy handwriting was a list of everybody who'd attended, the auctioneers, clerk, and his two mates who assisted.
'There's a good lad.' I patted his head. 'Look, Jim—'
'Yes?' He stood mournfully on the gravel.
'I don't want to hurry you, but the doctor's surgery closes at seven. You'll just make it on the bus.'
'Aren't you going to give me a lift?' His spirits were on the mend. There was a faint hint of the old truculence.
I smiled. 'Good night, Jim,' I said and closed the door.
Chapter 12
Some people kill me. You can invent a name for anything and it will be believed. Say anything and somebody'll cheer fit to burst. I'll give you an example. There was Dandy Jack looking for cracks on this piece of 'cracked' porcelain—and him a dealer old enough to be my great-granddad. Of course, Dandy Jack was as indisposed as a newt, as one politician cleverly said of that minister who got sloshed and shot his mouth off on telly..
'Give it here, Dandy.' I took it off him, exasperated. 'Crack porcelain doesn't mean it's got cracks all over it.' His bloodshot eyes gazed vaguely in my direction while I gave him the gory details.
'Kraak,' not 'cracked' porselain (note that 's'). Once upon a time, the Portuguese ship
The town was jumping. I felt on top of the world without knowing why. A bad memory of something evil having happened recently was suppressed successfully in a wave of sun and crowds. No dull weather, kids well behaved, trees waggling, and people smiling, you know how pleasant things can look sometimes. And the little arcade was thronged. Margaret waved from her diminutive glass-fronted shop. Harry Bateman was there with a good, really good, model compound steam engine of brass and deep red copper, Robert Atkinson about 1864 or thereabouts, and shouting the odds about part exchange for a John Nash painting, modern of course, all those greens and lavender watercolor shades. It would be close.
Several real collectors had turned up in the cafe and sat about saying their antiques were honest. We were all in brilliant humor, exchanging stories and gossip. Such a cheerful scene, everybody entering into the act and taking risks in deals. It was one of those marvelous times.
I told you I'm a believer in the gifts people have, and luck. Luck is partly made by oneself. Go out feeling lucky, make yourself behave lucky, and you will probably become lucky. Let yourself slip into the opposite frame of mind and you'll lose your shirt.
There'd been two flint collectors and one flint dealer in Jim's papers, and both collectors were in my files. The dealer, Froude, a pal of Harry's, wasn't bad, just cheap and useless, so I could forget him. The collectors were different mettle. One, a retired major called Lister, was a knowledgeable Rutland man who ran a smallholding in that delectable county. He knew what he was about. The second spelled even more trouble, had an enviable record in my card system as a dedicated and lucky collector given to sudden spurts of buying, often without relevance to the seasonal state of the market. Brian Watson was by all accounts one of those quiet-spoken northerners who seem quite untypical of the usual image people have of cheerful, noisy extroverts laughing and singing around pints in telly serials. I had almost all Watson's purchases documented, but though I'd never actually met him at sales, I'd heard he was hesitant, not given to confidences but gravitating with a true collector's instinct toward the quality stuff. A good collector, Watson, who'd spend what seemed about two years' salary in an hour, then vanish for up to a year back to his native Walkden. Also on Jim's list were Harry, Adrian, and Jane together, Margaret, good old Dandy Jack, Muriel's Holy Joe Lagrange, Brad, Dick from the boatyard, and Tinker Dill, among the dross. And Muriel.
Now, of all those people, Brian Watson was significant because he already had one of the pairs of Durs duelers, and so was Major Lister of Rutland, because he'd been making offers to Watson for them ever since Eve dressed. The field was getting pretty big, but I was cock-a-hoop. The pace was quickening. And as I talked in the arcade I smiled to myself at my secret. At the finishing post lay my beautiful unpaid-for Mortimers— loaded. I left the cafe and wandered through the arcade.
Tinker Dill was at my elbow full of news. We pretended to examine a phony Persian astrolabe. It was described by Harry Bateman as 'medieval' and priced accordingly. My sneer must have been practically audible. Don't overestimate their value, incidentally. Eighteenth-century Continental ones are usually more pricey, though they're all in vogue, and certain firms in Italy make excellent copies.
'You're getting busy, aren't you, Lovejoy?'
'Whatever can you mean?' I was all innocent.
'Bending Jim like that.' He enjoyed the thought of Jim's injuries almost as much as a sale.
'I'm quite unrepentant.' I put the astrolabe down, feeling it unclean, and took Tinker back into the nosh bar, where we could talk.
I told him of my developing interest in Watson and Lister. He whistled.
'They're First Division, Lovejoy.'
'And Froude.'
'He's rubbish.'
'I have this about the Field sale.'
'Eh?'
Over tea I showed him Jim's lists.
