“It’s just a fraud,” I told Poncho. “They’re famous, but unknown. Studying the crop markings is a new science, cereology.”
Poncho took some convincing. “You”, he finally sentenced the shaking pair, “are banned the Hundreds. You hear?”
They agreed, and were let go—but only after the night lift was accomplished: a silver platter and a chalice, sold on to a Continental dealer two years later, I heard down the vine, and miraculously “discovered” in a Belgian attic when an old house was being demolished. Thus authenticated, the precious silvers joined the “legitimated” mass of ancient treasures given wrong attributions in the museum collections of the world.
Fraud. When speaking straight off to the moonie in that Cambridgeshire pub, I’d forgotten one of my own laws of antiques: Fraud is everywhere,
And I durstn’t hide from Almira’s fraud any longer.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
« ^ »
The lake was quite a size, as jumped-up ponds go. We walked along a little shore among trees that tried to get their feet wet but couldn’t make it. Pretty. There are quite a lot of flowers in the woods in France. That’s all I wish to say on the subject of their countryside. Rural lovers can keep it. They can have ours too, as far as I’m concerned.
“It hasn’t rained for days, Lovejoy!” Almira was like a young girl, running ahead, pointing. “The ground’s lovely!”
Ground? Lovely too? Jesus. Mind you, a woman’s alluring shape makes you think of possible ways to counter yawnsome nature rambles, so I smiled, but she skipped away, enticing.
“Not here, Lovejoy. Wait till the summerhouse…” She caught herself quickly. ”Madame Raybaud said there’s one along here.”
Well, deception is as does. I cooled, looked across the lake. Nobody was about. We weren’t being seen and it all seemed private, so why suddenly the reserve?
“Lovejoy!” she exclaimed, flushed. “I said no! Wait. It’s just along here…”
We managed to get her breast off my hand and make it round a small promontory to where a logwood cabin stood. It seemed mostly windows. A boathouse, a rough track leading into the trees. Nice—sorry,
It was getting on for four o’clock when we came to and donned enough clothes to show respectability if a passing racoon or whatever happened by. She decided to brew up when I moaned neglect, and laughingly went to clatter in the kitchen. Big kitchens in France, but no ovens to speak of. Stoves by the score, though. I stood on the verandah to look over the lake.
Sunshine’s not all that bad, when it’s the golden ambery kind you get in late autumn. It’s the straight up-down stuff of broiling summer I hate. I stand in shade wherever it lurks. So, to one side of the sheltered projection over the boathouse slipway, I watched the lake and the weather and what a load of crap countryside is. Then I heard Almira lal-lalling to a tune, and smiled as the light came on. I had an Auntie Alice once who lal-lalled to any tune on earth. She could turn Vaughan William’s Sea Sympathy into lallal. I edged nearer the corner to listen, smiling. Which was how I came to see him.
It was Marc, leaning on a tree. That sickle thing hung in his belt. He carried a shotgun the way countryfolk do, broken over the crook of an arm, barrel down, stock under his elbow. Hands in pockets. Plus-fours, thick jacket, small hat with feathers around the band. Slowly I drew back. It’s movement gives spies away. That and, I thought sardonically, being too sloppy when you think the opponent’s a duckegg. Like Marc did me.
Quickly I made the kitchen, demonstrating affection to see what happened. She pouted, glanced at the window, shoved me aside, did that playtime mockery women engage in to promise passion when they’ve got a minute. Which meant she knew Marc was trailing us. Hence the absence of sex on the sunshine shore.
“Dwoorlink,” I said, all misty, when we were sipping in the bay window. “I’ve an idea! Let’s sleep here tonight!”
“Oh, Lovejoy.” She smiled, but close to tears. “You’re such a romantic. But it’s impossible.”
“Why?” I was bright as a button. “Can’t you see? Nobody near us, to see us or hear us…” I halted, uneasy at the words’ familiarity. I’m no wooer. Women see through me.
“Because,” she said. It was meant to sound light-hearted, but came out unutterably sad.
“Because what?” I took her hand. “I’ve never said this to any other woman, love. But I honestly wish you were the very first woman I’d ever met. I want us to—”
“No, Lovejoy. Don’t say it.”
She turned away, real tears flowing. I was uncomfortable, more upset than she was, because I’d almost nearly virtually honestly been about to say something unspeakably dangerous. I felt myself go white inside, if that’s possible. Why had she stopped me? Usually women go crazy to hear such daftness from a bloke. Was she acting, then? Or even more chained than me?
We spent the rest of the time proving merriment to each other, that this was a holiday affair of the very best kind. We made it home at the very edge of light.
And saw a Jaguar making its throbbing approach towards our very own front door. Like I said, I almost got everything nearly right—another way of saying everything wrong.
