The ugly old bat showed all the grief of a road sign. A pro. And Sherry, a lovely plump woman with a penchant for old-fashioned hairstyles, scrolls on her forehead, was only going through a let’s-pretend sorrow, half an eye on a telly quiz show. She knew I knew, only too well. She hostesses with excessive zeal on the town bypass, between helping Baff’s breakdowner jobs. I discovered Sherry’s exciting pastime accidentally, when doing a night valuation for Big John Sheehan. The Ulsterman had taken a liking to some display silver at The Postern, a crude hotel of creaking antiquity. He’d told me to drainpipe in and suss the silver, see if it was (a) genuine, and (b) worth stealing. Everybody knew it was in three cabinets, second floor. That night, I’d started out to obey—only to step on two heaving fleshly protuberances in the darkness. Both turned out to be Sherry, plying her hostessly trade in a manner unorthodox and a mite unexpected. Next morning she’d sought me out, frantic lest I divulge all to Baff. I’d gone along, because women have hidden persuaders. Anyway, silence spared Baff heartache, right? But why was an idle sod like Baff—sorry,
“I’ll see the lads have a whip-round, Sherry,“ I said gently.
Her face lit up, instantly shedding sorrow at the sound of monetary music. “You will? Oh, Lovejoy! That would be marvellous! I don’t know how I’m going to manage, what with…”
She petered out, pinkly remembering our first nocturnal encounter and its mutually beneficial consequences.
“Never mind.” Embarrassed, I made my farewells, paused at the door. Mum absently borrowed her daughter’s eye-liner. “Here, Sherry. Baff actually working, was he?”
“Baff?” Her mind reluctandy left thoughts of how much money the more sentimental antique dealers would chip in for her newly found widowhood. “Yes. He was doing a sea-front stall. They’d phoned him. Good money, Lovejoy. Of course,” she added hastily, in case word got back and diminished Baff’s friends’ generosity, “I haven’t had it yet.”
“Look,” I said. “Let me collect it for you. Where’d you say it was?”
She got the point instantly. “Selveggio Sea Caravans. On the Mentle Marina waterfront near the funfair.”
“Er, did Baff leave any antiques around, Sherry? Only, he owed me a couple of items…” He didn’t, but it was worth a try.
“No, Lovejoy. We’d had a run of bad luck lately. So many people have dogs and burglar alarms these days.”
“Never mind, love,” I said nobly. “Forget Baff owed me a thing.” I felt really generous, pardoning Baff’s non- existent debts to me.
Sherry came to see me off. She closed the door and stood on the step in the darkness.
“Lovejoy. I’m quite free now.” She straightened my jacket lapel—no mean feat—and smiled beguilingly. “It’s hard for me to accept. But you’ve no regular woman, have you? Maybe you and I could get together. I could pop round, see if you needed anything.”
“I’ll bring your money round later.” I bussed her, cranked the Ruby out of its moribundity, and chugged out of the tiny garden heading for reality.
This is half my trouble. I can cope with more or less anything, except with events that change in mid-stream. Like, here I was expressing my genuine sorrow over Baff’s mugging/killing, only to find myself propositioned by his bird who was more interested in hitching up with a replacement bloke and getting a few quid. It felt weird. Sandy and Mel actually separating, Baff getting done.
When I’m bewildered, I head for antiques and sanity. The auction called. My best-ever fake was back in town. But first, a fake historical interlude, at a genuine knight’s gathering.
Because I’d promised, I went to Sir Edward’s Event. I didn’t want to go. It’s near Long Melford. Every year they select some historical date by chucking dice, then re-enact the trades and village life of that particular year. The whole village is at it. They wear period garb, serve period-style food and drink on trestle-tables. They dance to reproduction musical instruments. It’s a bit too hearty for me, especially if they get things wrong. It’s still quite pleasant to see the children done up in a make-believe old schoolhouse, farriers shoeing horses with a travelling forge, all that.
The grounds at Sir Edward’s are given over to the Event, two whole days. There must have been three hundred people there, counting us visitors. Admission costs the earth; this year it was to raise gelt for Doc Lancaster’s unspeakable electronics that he tortures us with. A good cause, our luscious choirmistress Hepsibah told me, laughing, as she took my money. I wandered in among the mob, hoping nobody would see me slope off after a token grimace at the jolly scene. Enthusiasm has a lot to answer for.
At Pal’s joiner’s bench, though, I really stopped to really look. He had a table.
“Wotcher, Pal.” He’s an old geezer, does the woodwork scene every Event. “Rain held off, then, eh?”
“Thank God, Lovejoy. Want a genuine antique table, Anno Domini 1770?”
The table was lovely. I stared at it, worrisome bongs not happening in my chest. It was labelled
“Genuine is it, Lovejoy?” Jodie Danglass, no less. Sir Edward’s Event was a burden for me; it was extraordinary for Jodie.
“Course it’s genuine,” Pal groused. He’s pleasant, until you differ with him on some opinion. “Think I’d kill myself doing a surface like that, do you?” He went on lathing a piece of wood, using a rigged-up sapling drill. That’s only a rope stretched from a stooping sapling to your instep. Grudgingly I watched him. Better skilled than me. “Borrowed it from Sir Edward’s Hall.”
Well, the local bigwig might have had a fake made by the original methods. But nowadays? Except…
“Are you all right, Lovejoy?” Jodie asked.
“Stop nagging.”
We went to get served by a little girl. Dilute mead, quite good. “That surface, love.” Perfect, with the sheen only the hand of man can create. “I’d heard somebody say last week they’d seen a mint Sheraton side table in the Midlands, the surface unflawed, perfect, original. I didn’t believe him. But for some craftsman still to be faking so
