'Oh, dear.'
We went to a place near Gimbert's auction rooms on East Hill. I could see them unloading the antique furniture from the window table. Janie paid, pretending to do it absent-mindedly so I wouldn't take it bad.
I told her the tale of Patrick's wonderful find, the Korean vase. She said I should have tried to learn where he'd got it, but that's something dealers never do. She listened about Bexon, Popplewell, the Roman golds. I told her that Dandy Jack had got hold of the remnants of old Bexon's belongings.
'What's the mystery?'
'There never was a Roman Province of the Isle of Man, Janie. Caesar never bothered.'
'Then where did the coins come from?'
'Exactly.' I stirred uncomfortably. The nasty feeling was still there. Earlier I'd found Mary's surname from the register and telephoned. Her husband had been golfing since dawn, obviously a nutter. 'Take me to the golf club, Janie.'
'My God, Lovejoy! How can I?' She shook her head. 'My neighbour's a golfer. I'd better drop you beyond the station bridge. Can I come round later if I can get away?'
'No,' I said too quickly. 'Er, I've a deal on.' I do a special job at home some afternoons which Janie doesn't know about. Tell you about it in a minute.
'If I find you haven't, Lovejoy,' she said sweetly, I'll murder you. I hope you understand that.'
'Don't start,' I pleaded, but she put her lips thin the way they do and wouldn't answer.
Women never trust people. Ever noticed that? Sometimes I wish they would. It'd make my arrangements so much easier.
Janie ran me to the railway, periodically telling me to take my hand off her knee when she was driving, but it was honestly accidental. It's a mile uphill from the station bridge.
The golf club stands back from the narrow road among trees, quite a fetching low building. You never pass it without seeing a score of cars.
I asked for Peter Chape in the bar. He was out on the course. I waited, watching golfers from the bar window. I have no interest. To me golf's a good walk spoiled.
Behind me people entered the bar, had a drink, smoked. I listened to the talk of birdies, eagles, five irons and rough chipping. It was another language to me, like Swahili. The great thing, it seems, is to ask everybody else what their handicap is. Mine's women.
I was being pointed out to a tall newcomer by the barman. He started across the room.
Peter, Mary's husband.
Peter Chape was a thin, rather casual man, disappointed that I wasn't a golfer. I explained I was a dealer searching for Bexon's paintings and told innocently how I had been directed to his house earlier in the week by some anonymous wellwisher. He confirmed what Mary had said about old Mr. Bexon. They worked as engineers together only for a short period before the old chap retired.
'He lived with his two girls,' he said. 'Nieces by adoption, really. Kept house and so on.
A quiet, clever old chap.'
'I believe they're easy to get along with,' I fished cleverly. 'Maybe I should call around.'
'Well… Nichole, yes. Katie… maybe not so easy.' Clearly the gentlemanly sort. I thanked him and went.
It's a long walk out to the village. Not one antique shop for ten miles in any direction. A short cut runs across fields into our village but I never take it. There's too much countryside about already without going looking for the rotten stuff. As I walked I kept wondering if mashie niblick was in the dictionary.
It was coming on to rain as I trudged eventually into my lane. A familiar motor-cycle was propped against the cottage. I groaned. I'd forgotten Algernon, a trainee would-be dealer lumbered on me by a kindly crucifixioneer. I was struggling to educate him in antiques. Talk about a sow's ear.
It was becoming one of those days again.
'Lovejoy!' He was beaming at me through his goggles coming round the garden.
Toothy, specs, motor-cycle leathers. He's mad on bikes.
'Hiyer, Algernon. You'll frighten the budgies in that gear.'
I've read it.' He dragged from among his leathers a book and held it up, proud as a peacock. 'Like you said.'
'Not in the rain, Algernon.' I took the precious volume and put it inside my jacket.
'Fascinating! Such an amazing group of people!'
I squinted at him. The burke was serious. If I ever strangled him I'd have to get Janie for an alibi. He was wagging like a gleeful dog fetching its stick.
'An absolutely marvellous read,' he was saying when his voice cut out. That was on account of my hand scrunging his windpipe. I pinned him against the wall.
'Goon!'
He was puce. I took my hand away and watched the cyanosis go.
'But, Lovejoy!' he gasped. 'What's wrong?'
Algernon is a typical member of the public. That is to say, piteously ignorant of practically everything, but mainly and most painful of all entirely ignorant of antiques.
Trying to teach a twenty-two-year-old Neanderthal the trade was the result of my habit of going broke.
