'No box, though,' he grumbled.
'They didn't have, at first, Vern,' I told him, from kindness. 'It's only in modern times that hostesses served tea from one table. In the late eighteenth century, each visitor was provided with her own separate small table. Like that one.' I nodded at his - well, Christie's - teapoy photo. 'Lift it with one finger, it's so light. Simple pillar-with-claw construction, two feet six inches tall, the surface's width only half that.' I admired the titchy table's elegance.
Now, though, dealers alter these rarities into a plant stand or a larger table. They do it because they're mesmerized by dimensions. The early, and rare, teapoy table - so light, so plain - is worth a fortune. Cackhanded forgers routinely mangle them into some different monstrosity. The teapoy - originally tipai, 'three legs' from Hindi and Persian -
is among the most common of murdered antiques. Like the pole screen, like the old plain stool. I honestly don't know why the teapoy doesn't make a comeback. They're such lovely pieces. Interestingly, elderly ladies who lived out east in the Raj still provide you with your own little table with everything on it for teatime, but the gracious habit is dying out. Now, all meals are plop, slop and hop.
Vern glumly wended his way. Shirley grimaced.
'Wish I'd one of those to auction, Lovejoy.'
'Want one?' I asked, serious. 'Take me a fortnight, if you'll buy the heartwood.'
'Deal,' she said. 'On commission, or buy outright?'
'Buy.' We shook hands. 'Catalogue it as you want. I'll see it's aged right.' I smiled. 'You know what they say about a fake antique. First auction, it's a forgery. Second time, doubtful. Third time round it's genuine.'
Shirley didn't even blush. She's famous for carouselling antiques, changing their fictional history. This way, nobody's ever quite sure if the 'antique' they're inspecting is the one they saw last week or something completely different. Her catalogues are balderdash, of course.
'I was surprised you're doing Dosh's job, Lovejoy.'
One of her whifflers was signalling, should he ring the bell to start. She gave him the nod.
'How is Dosh, Shirley?' I asked, seeing every dealer in the place was drifting our way, wondering what we'd just agreed. She'd been Dosh's lass for about a year, swapped herself over from a wild Welsh cabinet maker from Carmarthen who got gaoled for hijacking antiques vans on trunk roads.
'Just the same,' she said. A trace of bitterness in there? This was the reason I'd stopped by.
'No legal trouble, Shirley.' I pretended relief. 'I'm glad.'
She gestured swiftly to the whiffler stop bothering her. Some of the dealers were catcalling, whistling the old refrain Why are we waiting?
'He's had some lawsuit, Lovejoy.' The acidity became anger. 'If he's…' She gave up, shoulders drooping, and gave me a wry smile. 'Don't get your fingers burnt, Lovejoy, will you?'
'Me?' I went all innocent. 'Look, love. If I do you a set of ancient casts of rare golds, Romans, Greek, some medals, would you caravan them for me? Half and half?'
Her I-know-you look is a better smile than the wounded sort. To caravan is to move antiques in one lot and sell to a different part of the country via some friend. Shirley has plenty of crook auctioneer pals, being a crook herself.
'You're a chiseller, Lovejoy. You know that?'
'Yes,' I said seriously.
She laughed and went to the rostrum shaking her head at the wicked ways of the world. The antiques trade is full of friendships sealed with love and wine. We forget love doesn't last. And wine evaporates, not like blood.
So I went to see Harry Bateman, who lives on North Hill with, but more often without, his wife Jenny.
Here's one of the quickest ways to fake antiques which are really worth selling. Only one, mind. There are a dozen others you can do in an afternoon, but a good forgery deserves technique.
Harry Bateman had been holding some antique coins and medals, including ancient Roman and Greek, for a solicitor in town, supposedly to make a valuation for probate.
The solicitor, rapacious for his fee, had had each one photographed and weighed, so Harry couldn't get up to no good.
Who was aggrieved, and welcomed me with surliness.
'Bloody lawyers, won't trust me an inch,' he grumbled.
'Jenny in, Harry?' I asked, to be safe.
Jenny, his missus, adores a bloke called Klayson who hates women. She devotes her all
- and a good chunk of Harry's all - to serve him, and pay for his every whim. Harry can't understand it. Nor I, in fact, because Klayson treats Jenny like dirt. She just goes on worshipping, in spite. 'Nowt as queer as folk,' my Gran would say, adding after a wry pause, 'And women are worse.'
'No.' Harry spoke with resignation. 'She's at that queer's place doing his washing. You know, Lovejoy, he beats her?'
'Oh, er…' I'd been about to say a routine, 'Good, fine,' but words are no help. 'Help me, Harry.'
I held up a piece of isinglass, a few pence from the chemist's on Head Street. It's gruesome stuff, being sturgeon gelatin.
'You making copies? You'll get me hung, Lovejoy.'
Morosely he went to his safe and opened it up. 'Don't never say I don't never help you nothing.'
'Eh? Ta, Harry.' I was relieved. If he'd not been feeling especially down he might have refused. 'I owe you.'
