“Dobson gave him a twinner, Patrick said.”
Tinker’s tale was beginning to sound true, despite Dobson’s reticence.
“Ta, Jill. Tell him to bell me, eh?”
I evaded another soak, gnaw, and scenting by eeling among heavy suites of 1910
furniture to where Patrick stood. He always looks crazy to me—crocodile handbag, silken bishop sleeves, and enough mascara to black your boots—but he’s a hard-line dealer. I was swiftly getting narked. This bloody drudgery’s Tinker’s job.
“Hiyer, Pat. Where’s Lily?” Lily’s a married woman who loves Patrick while her husband’s away and sometimes when he isn’t. I’d say more but it’s too complicated and I’d get it wrong.
“Patrick,” he corrected. “That stupid bitch brought the wrong checkbook, Lovejoy! Can you imagine?” He swore extravagantly in falsetto. “I made her go right home!”
“That’s the spirit, Pat. Look. Where’s Tipper Noone?”
“To each his own, dear heart. You won’t find him in my boudoir.” He boomed—well, trilled—a gay laugh.
“Don’t help, then,” I said evenly. “See if I care.”
Other dealers sieving through the gunge on display paused at the implied threat. Even Patrick abated somewhat.
I may not be much to look at, but among antique dealers I’m special. Very few dealers know anything about antiques. In fact, most are simply Oscar-minus actors highly skilled at concealing their monumental ignorance. Try one out, if you don’t believe me.
Offer an antique dealer a Rembrandt—he’ll hum and ha and won’t offer you more than eighty quid. It isn’t because he’s miserly. It’s because he can’t tell an Old Master from an oil slick, which is why you can still pick up fortunes hidden among loads of old tat.
Ignorance being endemic, it follows that antique dealers need somebody to help them, not only with reading and writing, but also with knowing antiques. I don’t mean somebody who’s simply read the right books. I mean somebody whose inner sense tells if that fifteenth-century Book of Hours is a brilliant sequence of illumination from the unsullied monks of Lindisfarne, or a newspaper and starch. Easy? Yes, for somebody like me, who quivers and trembles when that Roman oil lamp radiates its honest ancient little soul’s vibes out into the universe, or when that antique Chinese jeweled fingernail cover emanates gleams under the auctioneer’s naked bulb.
The people distributed in Gimbert’s showrooms had paused with alert interest because I’m the only divvie for many long leagues. I’m gormless with money and women, which is why I’m always broke, but I’m the only one of us who isn’t gormless with antiques.
Patrick’s venom is legendary. But if I called his antiques fakes, he too would be broke.
Mostly I’m honest because special gifts aren’t for monkeying about with. So, wisely, he turned sulky and pulled his mauve silk-lace gloves on.
“Don’t be nasty, Lovejoy. I positively sweated blood arranging for Tipper to give me an estimate for mending a Chippendale fret. He didn’t turn up, did he, Lily?” Patrick’s admirer had just breathlessly returned, proudly bearing her checkbook.
“Tipper? Yes. Here you are, darling.”
Patrick dropped the checkbook, demanding icily, “Do I have to carry everything, silly bitch?”
Lily was picking it up, saying, “Sorry, sweetheart…” as I left. They’re both on a loser, but neither thinks so. It’s hard proving people are wrong when they’re doing what they want.
There on the pavement stood Antioch. He’s a slim, quiet bloke. A friend, thank God.
(You’ll see later why I’m glad on that point.) He waits motionless, never lolls. He’s the contact man for the night wagoners. As I hesitated, he nodded hello.
“How do, Antioch,” I said, nervous. “Look. That driver.”
“You’re asking around, Lovejoy?” he said quietly.
“Aye. No luck so far.”
“You find out who did for him, don’t do anything. Understand?”
“You know me, Antioch,” I said heartily. “Scared of my own shadow.”
He looked into me. “Just tell me who, Lovejoy.”
“Right, right.” I watched him go, my nape chilled.
Then I phoned Jo, trying to sound urgent. “The police, Jo.” There was a background din. Some school. “They pulled me in for questioning but I didn’t let on about your involvement, love.”
“My involvement?” she said faintly.
“I’m just reassuring you, in case you were anxious. I’ve said nothing.” Pause, for her to say nice of me. Not a word. I’d have to be even nicer. “And I’m sorry the jumble-sale stuff made you mad. I’ve not had a minute to clear up since—”
“What jumble-sale stuff?”
“Those women’s clothes lying about. Old Kate brings them. I collect for the, er, hospital charity. Next time you come it’ll be tidy. Honest.”
“Oh.” Uncertainty at last. Belief might not be far behind.
I gasped indignantly. “Jo! You didn’t think those underclothes were…”
