“Some bloke forked out. Part of an antiques deal.”
Shrewd Lovejoy’s quicksilver brain was equal to the task. I took her delectable body in my loving embrace, and raised her head so our eyes locked. I said, most sincerely, “There is no other woman, dwoorlink.”
“You’re sure?”
“How could there be? To prove it, we’re going to a superb new place for supper tonight. The Nouvello Troude at Ladyham!”
Her relaxed body went a fraction unrelaxed. “Ladyham?”
“You know it?” I smiled, still most sincerely. “I expect you wealthy landowners dine there all the time.”
“Nouvello? No, darling. I’ve never been. But Ladyham’s rather a way, isn’t it? When there are so many places nearer.” She burrowed beneath the sheet, ready for a new smile. I felt myself weaken. “Let’s go to Barlfen. It’s on the waterside.”
“I’d like to try the Nouvello. I’ve heard it’s really posh.”
“Can I persuade you, Lovejoy?”
I was determined to get her to Ladyham, the lying cow. She co-owned the massive new leisure centre, whose boss, Troude, had just hired me. She and Sandy had partly financed it. Yet she’s never been?
“Can I, darling?” Her mouth was everywhere, her hands crawling up my belly.
“Right,” I said weakly. Being ridiculous is my lifestyle. “Barlfen. Sevenish okay?” Pathetic.
The Ruby was lively as a cricket. They’d done a good job at Sugden’s garage. I called on Suggie. He came grinning to meet me. His two apprentices were overjoyed to see my Ruby, God knows why. They always say they’re sick of it.
“Nice old crate, Lovejoy.” Suggie’s always wiping his oily mitts on his overalls.
“Ta for doing it, Suggie.” I tapped its bonnet. “What’s the fastest I can do?”
The apprentices laughed out loud. They were itching to undo it again, start afresh on the damned thing. Barmy. Imagine mending engines all day long.
“Eject if you hit fifteen mph, Lovejoy. Downhill.”
“Ha, ha,” I said gravely. “The bill get settled, Suggie?”
“All done.” He was over the moon. “Thankful to get cash in hand these days, with that bloody tax.”
“Great, great.” No receipt, no trace of payment. “Who collected it?” I asked casually. “Only, the bloke left a letter on the driving seat.”
Suggie’s grin faded into wariness. “Best post it to him, Lovejoy.”
Kicking myself, I beamed, nodded. “Why didn’t I think of that? Cheers, lads.” I should have thought up a better story.
Just to show them, I notched a good twenty mph leaving their lane, but cut down to my usual sixteen when the Ruby started wheezing. The clatter still came from under the rear wheels, but elegance has to be paid for. I drove with pride into Sandy and Mel’s gravelly forecourt. The Ruby trundled to a halt, silenced thankfully.
Mel was packing a big estate car. Cases on the roof, the interior stuffed with gear. Pot plants too, I saw with dismay. Oh dear.
“Wotcher, Mel. Going on a sweep?”
A sweep is a swift scouring of the countryside for antiques. Whether you use fifty technicians like the BBC in its
He paused, strapping the cover over the heaped roof rack.
“No, Lovejoy. Leaving.”
Sandy and Mel are constants in the antiques game. I mean, they’re forever quarrelling, parting in tears and temper. Then it’s the big reconciliation and they resume dealing—shrewd, money-mad, but knowledgeable. They have a knack. Their latest success was finding a collection of wrought-iron German snuffboxes. Don’t laugh. These were only half an inch tall, but were gold-inlaid, damascened, and genuine eighteenth century—if they’re genuine eighteenth century. You know what I mean. Sandy and Mel’s nine boxes were brilliant, original, and authentic. Their like in one handful will probably never be seen again. I nearly cried when some undeserving Yank bought them for a fortune. I eyed Mel. The less exotic of the pair, unsmiling, always cross. I was unhappy, seriously.
“Leaving leaving, Mel? Or just leaving?”
“Leaving squared, Lovejoy.” He tested the strap, stepped back. “That’s everything.”
He looked at me. Sorrow began to creep about. This looked truly grim. I’d seen the scene a hundred times, but never quite like this. The long silence made it worse.
“Mel?” I said, nervous.
He gazed about. “Just look at it, Lovejoy. Converted school-house, a barn. Not bad, decoratively first rate. Three hundred years old, sound as a bell. Stock at valuation.”
A notice board announced it was for sale. My spirits hit my boots. This was real. Mel and Sandy, splitting? Like Tom and Jerry going separate ways. Unthinkable.
“Why, Mel?”
He knew I wasn’t asking the price, and smiled deep woe. “Sandy’s gone in over his head, Lovejoy. You know
