An angry murmur rose from the crowd. Millon paled. I felt so happy.
Blithely I sailed on, 'Like that old sextant.' It had been proudly displayed in the window all week. 'Did you tell them it isn't really seventeenth-century, Millon?' I explained how even with a small handlens you can spot modern high-rev lathe work.
Millon was going green. The ugly groundswell of muttering intensified. He bleated, These allegations are quite unfounded—'
'And that old Dutch microscope, Millon,' I announced with jubilation. 'You catalogued it as a mint original. The lenses are whittled-down spectacle lenses from a threepenny stall. Any optician will tell you how it's done.'
Somebody shouted, 'Well, Millon? What about it, eh?' Another dealer yelled, 'I bought that ivory, Millon—'
'Taiwan,' I put in before the dazed auctioneer could draw breath. 'They simulate the grain.' With a wax coating pitted by a kitchen cheese-shredder and a dilute solution of phosphoric acid you can give almost any plastic a detailed texture of ivory.
Unscrupulous forgers of antiques can mass-produce them if you make a template, though I've found (er, I mean I've heard) the moulds don't really last very long.'
'Please, gentlemen.' The nerk tried to gavel but it only irritated everyone still more.
'What about this miniature?' That was the big Continental bloke. He was looking not at Millon but directly at me, which I thought odd. Nor did he seem worried at having risked his money on a load of tat. The man next to him, obviously one of his many serfs, was holding up a small filthy medallion-sized disc covered by a dirty piece of glass. Even across the angry crowd in that dingy hall I felt that luscious shudder deep inside my chest. My breathing went funny, and I shook to the chime of heavenly bells.
For me all strife momentarily ceased, and I was in Paradise. I was in the presence of a genuine sixteenth- century miniature, possibly even done by the great Hilliard himself. I groaned audibly and felt tears start in my eyes.
The big geezer laughed, a strange noise like a cat's cough. I didn't need to explain my jealousy because it must have showed on my face. He had made himself an absolute fortune and suddenly I hated him more than fried liver, the bastard.
I turned away and raised my voice over the babble. 'Pay attention, troops. That bobbin tree catalogued as late Hanoverian is actually brand new, and imported pinewood at that.' I could have gone into details of how fruitwood and laburnum can be simulated in these delectable household necessities of Regency days, but you can't educate antique dealers so it's no use bothering.
'Please. You're ruining—'
'That Civil War cavalry pistol's a fake,' I continued, pointing. 'A cut-down Eastern jezail with a Turkish barrel. Note the—'
I would have gone on because I was just getting into my stride, but with a howl the dam broke. A beefy gorilla in from the Smoke shouldered me out of the way. The furious dealers grabbed for Millon, the poor goon shrieking for help but of course his three miffs had vanished and he disappeared in a mound of flying limbs. I spent the next few seconds eeling my way from the pandemonium, smiling blissfully. The place was in uproar as I pinged out into the cold.
Happier now, I plodded the few snowy yards to the Ship. I could still hear the racket from the auction rooms as I pushed open the tavern door. Tinker was hunched over a pint at the bar. He started at the sight of me. 'Look, Lovejoy. I could get old Lemuel to help instead.'
'Shut it.' I gave him the bent eye and he subsided into silence but still managed to drain his pint. His gnarled countenance led me to understand a refill was a matter of survival, so I paid up. It was in that split second while Tinker's pint glass remained miraculously full that I felt the most horrid sense of foreboding. I started to slurp at my own glass in an attempt to shake it off just as a hand tapped my shoulder.
'Lovejoy.'
Chris Anders was normally a taciturn geezer but now his face was puce with fury. He is domestic pre-Victorian furniture—that treacherous shifting sand of the antiques world—
and late Victorian jewellery, and good at both. I quite like him but at the moment I wasn't exactly in the mood to have my shoulder tapped. I sighed and put my glass down. It was one of those days.
'You bastard! You shambled the whole bloody auction!'
'Me?' I said innocently.
'You! I wanted one of the lots and you stopped me, you—'
I tried to calm him. 'Sorry, old pal. Anyway that Chinese funereal terracotta bird shouldn't be glazed, Chris.' I was only trying to be reasonable, because he's famous for coating with polyurethanes any antique that stands still long enough, the maniac. The object Chris was after shrieked authenticity. It was one of the terracotta figures from Fu Hao's tomb, excavated at Anyang in China during the mid-1970s. Anyway, I have a soft spot for that tempestuous empress Fu Hao who lived such a stormy life. Wife of the Emperor Wu Ding, 1300 BC or thereabouts, and not above leading his armies into battle if the need arose. A real woman.
'I have a right—' Chris was storming.
'You're thick as a brick, Chris,' I said, honestly trying to be kind.
His eyes glazed and he grabbed me by the throat—or would have done if his rib hadn't cracked on the stool I slammed up under his ribcage. The broken glass suddenly in my hand opened a slit down his sleeve and forearm through which blood squirted.
'You should only dust terracotta figures,' I told him as he reeled back aghast and squealing. I heard Sal the barmaid shriek. 'And use a sable paintbrush. Okay?'
The pub was silent, except for the quiet jingle of the door behind old Alfred. The poor bloke was like a refugee today. Chris clutched at his arm as the blood refused to stop and moaned, 'What's Lovejoy done to me? Get an ambulance.'
