She took a while to answer. “Very well,” she said finally. “Grammar apart, Lovejoy, you’ll have to sing for your supper.”
It was Jo’s free afternoon. She stayed and I made tea for her. Ellen had washed up, so I had clean cups. I made some sandwiches and cut their crusts off to make natty triangles. A bit thick, but all the more nourishing. The tomatoes had gone pappy so I blotted them on newspaper first. I felt posh serving up, like the Savoy chef. I had to use a towel for a tablecloth because I can never find anything when Ellen’s tidied.
“I’m impressed, Lovejoy,” Jo said, smiling.
“Ta,” I said modestly. I knew she would be. I can really lay on the elegance when I want. I’d even found the teapot lid.
She wore a beige twin set, tweed skirt, but mainly a black opal ring, Edwardian setting, heavy and gold. Beautiful.
“It was my friend I was at school with, Shona. We’ve kept up correspondence.” She colored, proving rumor right: a farm manager, a passionate holiday affair, and her coming to a teaching job in East Anglia to be near his fertile acres.
Shona was a teacher in Caithness, which is almost as far north as you can go. In a recent letter Shona had mentioned selling some furniture. By pure chance, Jo said, carefully avoiding my gaze, my name entered the correspondence.
“It was soon after I’d met you at the Castle show,” she explained. Farmer Bob had been away. Jo and I had met on that local gala day—everybody goes to our Castle’s flower displays. We saw quite a bit of each other for a fortnight until her favorite yokel homeward plodded his weary way.
“You told Shona I was a divvie?”
“I may have mentioned it. In passing.” She spoke offhandedly. “Maybe. I can’t remember. Shona insisted on selling through a box number. I passed it on to you. You wrote, and… and now that poor driver…”
My mind wouldn’t stop nudging me, but I’d have scared her off if I’d started a serious interrogation.
“Wasn’t it lucky, you meeting that woman in the fog?” Jo said, too casual. She’d reached the suspicion bit, about Ellen.
“A fluke,” I agreed.
“You deserved it, Lovejoy,” she said, smiling. “For giving Archie that grand tricycle.”
“It isn’t his fault his legs can’t reach the car throttle.”
“Of course not.” Still smiling, she put her fingers to my face. We were suddenly close.
My hopes of examining the true worth of Farmer Bob’s black opal engagement ring were dashed when Jo found her hand on a pair of Ellen’s stockings. They’d treacherously crept out from behind a cushion. She was up and vehement in a flash.
“Lovejoy! And to think that I was about to… oh!”
“Honestly, Jo. They’re my sister’s…” Tra-la, tra-la. Good night, nurse, with Jo storming out in a ferocious temper and me shouting invented explanations after her.
Women really get me down sometimes. They’re so unreasonable. You’d think they’d learn sense, having nothing else to do all day. I watched her car burn off up the lane, then went in disconsolately.
The sight of her unfinished grub cheered me up and I sat down to finish it. My spirits began soaring. Where one valuable antique came from, there were bound to be more, right? And if the sender was dim enough to send a pricely article thinking it a mock-up, I was in for a windfall.
Give Jo a day to come round, wheedle Shona’s address off her, then hit the high road.
Or the low road. I’m not proud.
Between mouthfuls I burst into song.
« ^ »
—— 4 ——
Jill was at Gimbert’s infamous auction rooms. This emporium of wonderment and infamy is lodged between a row of ancient cottages, a ruined priory, two pubs and a church. She was inspecting the assorted junk in her time- honored way, which is carrying a microscopic poodle and trailing a knackered seaman. Jill’s tastes are catholic, as they say. She wears furs, grotesque hats, rings, brooches, pearls, the lot. I like her.
She saw me pushing through the dross and screamed.
“Lovejoy, darling!” She drenched my face with a kiss. Quickly I pulled away. Her embrace is a dead risk. Either the poodle gnaws your earhole or you stink like a boutique. “How clever to escape from jail! Meet… the name, lover?”
“Dave,” the young sailor said.
“Dave,” Jill repeated, trying to lock the name in. She always forgets. “Dave’s just into port, aren’t you, honey?” In or out is her only criterion.
“Yes.” Dave was bemused, like all Jill’s Jolly Jacks. Coastal ships docking at our town’s minuscule port take turns lending Jill nautical manpower. The names change, to protect the innocents. I’ve never met the same one twice. Tinker says they don’t dare land again.
“Hello, er, Dave,” I said heartily. “Jill. You sometimes commission Tipper Noone?”
“Not lately, Lovejoy. I’ve been absolutely rushed off my feet!” Big Prank from Suffolk, silver dealer among the Regency ware, snickered at the unfortunate turn of phrase. A couple of other dealers upending furniture politely disguised their guffaws as coughs.
