Nothing wears you out like sorrow. I rose, stood like a lemon doing nothing. A few birds hopped about. A robin came, looked hard at me.
'You sod off,' I told it. 'I can't do more than I do.'
It said nothing, flirted its wings and was gone. I told Arthur so-long, and left along the same path.
The glade behind me was silent as the grave - sorry, I meant pretty quiet. I stepped where Dottie and Lydia had walked.
I wondered who the bloke was who'd watched me. He'd kept still as a hunting heron.
That's countryside for you. Rotten, being in it. Anything can happen, and nobody'd be any the wiser. I felt my back prickle. I'd said the right thing to the robin, made it loud enough for a stray hunter to hear.
Glad to be back at Dottie's safe little vineyard, though. We had a glass of her Cymbeline Red, and sipped her Augustus White. English wines couldn't give you a headache if they tried, thank goodness. We said goodbye to Dottie and finally drove off towards St Edmundsbury. We were overtaken by a large limousine, which signalled us to stop on the road's hard shoulder.
Tinker got out, coughing enough to pollute the coast. He looked really smart, which for him means shaven. Lydia alighted and angrily assailed the driver.
'You drove in a dangerous manner!' she blazed. 'Overtaking at speed on a blind bend.'
'The road's straight, miss.' He was unperturbed. 'You were doing fifteen miles an hour.'
'That's no excuse for…' etc., etc.
'Wotcher, Lovejoy.' Tinker grinned foolishly. He carried a roll of blanket under his arm.
Other than that and the shave, he looked normal: soiled ex-Army greatcoat patched to extinction, battered boots, greasy mittens, beret, teeth down to corrugated brown stubs, frayed trousers that hadn't been washed for a generation. 'You all right, son?'
'Aye, Tinker. You?' I was wondering how he'd found us here.
'Oh, not so bad.' He looked askance. 'Ta for sending the motor.'
'Lydia arranged it,' I said. 'Who's this us?'
He peered into the car. 'Lovejoy says it's okay, Trout.'
And out stepped this apparition. I gaped. Even Lydia shut up.
Trout was small, yet wore a full-size shirt. He carried a rolled-up furry garment of yellow and black stripes. He wore furry slippers, and carried a plastic inflatable club of the kind you see in Christmas pantomimes. I know you're not supposed to say words like dwarf and midget in case it's fascist, but 'little' seems too limited when the bloke you're describing doesn't come up to your waist.
'Wotcher, Trout,' I said warily. 'You a pal of Tinker's?'
'Are you?' His suspicion made me smile. I felt I needed a grin. His voice was gravelly, like a heavy smoker's.
'We were in nick together,' Tinker explained. 'Trout is a Tarzan-O-Gram. It's a joke, see? Him not being big. Get it? They give him that shirt at the nick. Couldn't send him out in his Tarzan clobber. He got done for burglary dressed like an Ape Man.'
'I heard,' I said politely. 'Saltbridge Manor, that Cotman painting?'
Trout scuffed the ground. 'I'd have got away but for a gamekeeper.'
'Only bad luck,' Tinker said eagerly. 'I thought Trout could come with us, until he finds his feet. He's tough, can do all sorts.'
'Look.' I wanted to say no. It's fashionable to be kind to ex-cons, suss out their innermost problems and prove that nothing's their fault. But a titch like Trout, even not dressed as Tarzan, would stand out like a searchlight in a pit. Besides, Trout was famous for doing Olivers. An Oliver is a method of burglary named after Oliver Twist.
You prise open a fanlight and let in some child who unlocks the door for your team of burglars to nip in and strip the place of antiques. It's made a recent return to the crime scene, on account of hidden electronics spoiling things. Trout was ideal for Olivers.
The trouble was, Trout was ultra-famous. Magistrates everywhere had felt pity and let the little chap off with cautions. The whole trade knew about the scam in London's Ealing, where he'd knifed some dealer who'd cheated him out of a half share in that theft from a Dusseldorf museum. The victim hadn't lived to tell the tale, dying in the ambulance. So was it wise taking on somebody who might gut me for being slow with the wages?
Lydia solved my dilemma. 'Oh, certainly, Tinker! Lovejoy will be positively delighted! Mr Trout's expertise will be most welcome!'
Thank you, Lydia.
So it was that, grieving for Arthur, worried sick about Colette, frantic to solve Dosh Callaghan's gem mystery, I now had a dwarf Tarzan, a beautiful lady apprentice hooked on transparent honesty, and my trusted barker who could be relied upon to be at least as corrupt as me. Guess who was going to be any help.
We stopped at a child's outfitters north of LongMelford, and kitted Trout out on Lydia's charge card. She was thrilled, cooing about textures and insisting on two new sets of everything, seeing if this colour went with the universe. I grumbled we'd be here all frigging day. She got mad and scolded me outside.
Fuming on the pavement outside a bakery - they sold me some flour cakes, keep the wolf from the door - I saw a partial answer. The old flintstone church dwarfed (sorry) the village. I beckoned Tinker. We crossed and knocked at the presbytery door. Vicars are always in, having no job.
'Good day, reverend,' I said, gulping the last of my grub. Tinker had already engulfed his. 'My name is Lovejoy. Might I ask about burials, please?'
'Do come in.' He was an elderly, grave man with wisps of silvery hair fungating from everywhere. Nostrils, ears,
