death of a close friend. By Thursday I was written off from public awareness, which suited me. The local paper went back to the more important foot-and-mouth disease. On Friday I asked Margaret to take me for an evening drive.
I felt absolutely calm. The Nock just fitted the glove compartment, wrapped in a dry duster to prevent scratches. All anxieties and fears vanished in the calm that certainty brings.
Margaret had been marvelous during the week. We'd chatted about antiques and I'd been pleasantly surprised at how stable my thoughts were, and how I enjoyed her company. She'd taken the full account of my escapades at the cottage quite well. The only point where I differed from the truth was the invention of a hidden tunnel beneath the sink out to the back of the copse. After all, the honor among dealers is bendable, and my remaining stuff was still down there. I'd partly paid my keep by authenticating some musical seals of about 1790 for her, lovely they were too.
'You're not going to do anything silly, Lovejoy?' she asked as she drove.
'People keep asking me that.'
'And what do you answer?'
'Women do keep on, don't they?' I grumbled.
'I'm waiting, Lovejoy.'
'Of course I won't do anything silly.'
'Then why the gun?'
'Because he'll have two, and a crossbow.'
The car slowed and she pulled in, angry as hell. 'Who?'
'The murderer.'
'Is that where we're going?'
'Yes.' There was a prolonged silence. For a moment I thought she was going to make me get out and walk.
'Does she know?' she asked after a while.
'No.'
'Certain?'
'No.' I paused. 'But she might have guessed. You know how people guess the truth sometimes.'
We resumed the journey.
'Aren't you going to tell me?' she said.
'Lagrange, the Reverend gentleman from near the wrong bird sanctuary.'
'So that's what all those lies were about stuffed birds?'
'Well, the odd white lie,' I mumbled.
'You mean it was him? The shooting? The… Sheila's accident? Everything?'
'And poor Eric Field.'
'And you?'
'And
'But he's a… a reverend.'
'Borgia was a pope.'
I told her how my suspicions gradually rose about Lagrange. Who had the best opportunity of learning of Eric Field's find? Who couldn't afford a car yet would need a small put-put for frequent local visits in a rural community? And what was more natural than a woman's bike for somebody who occasionally had to wear priestly garb? An authentic collector-friend of Eric Field's, he'd started revisiting Muriel's house. Collectors, like all addicts, need money. He was with Muriel in her posh gray Rover when Sheila gave me the turnkey at the war memorial. Muriel had blossomed with his feet under her table, and he'd started watching me from then on, using Muriel's place as a base. Not a lot of trouble with a small motorized bike and only a narrow valley to cross.
I'd stirred things up and reaped the consequences.
It fitted together.
'Are you… fond of this Muriel?' Margaret wanted to know.
'I suppose so.'
'More than that?'
'I'm always more than that where women are concerned,' I said starchily, then added, 'She's just a child, gormless and bright.'
'Poor Lovejoy,' Margaret commented in a way that told me I'd had my lot. You can tell from how they say things, can't you?
She asked if Lagrange would be at Muriel's. I said I couldn't be sure.
'He's her boyfriend, though,' I said sardonically. 'The gardeners set me off thinking the other day, by being embarrassed at the odd innocent cussword. Thought I was him for a moment. He's a cool customer. Insists on having tea in the same room where he killed poor Eric Field stone dead. A right nutter.'
'Couldn't we get the police—?'
