'Not at all, Tinker.' She gave me a scathing glance. 'We must care for our gallant old soldiers.'
That was because I kept telling her not to buy him more beer, since it was a clear con.
She meant I was heartless.
The London express came screeching in. We boarded. People looked at Trout, but he was happy in his new clobber and didn't mind. I kept cursing myself for not actually realizing that the oldish woman ferreting among the dross in the New Caledonian antiques market must actually have been Colette Goldhorn herself, not merely somebody who'd reminded me of her.
Odd thing, but none of us asked Trout about who killed whom, or why, or where. It was as if we knew.
11
WE LURKED AT Tower Bridge, if it's possible to do such a thing. Hordes of pedestrians gaped at us. They should have watched the sword swallower performing nearby. An escape artist was wriggling in chains while a drum beat and the crowds cheered. This is one remarkable thing about our creaking old kingdom - you can be stuck miles out in the bundu among rivers and forests, and ninety minutes later among the Tower's tourist crowds.
'Why are we here, Lovejoy?' Lydia asked. She looked so lovely I was ashamed of me.
The throng's glances were full of mystification, Beauty with three Beasts. I pretended we weren't a menagerie. I didn't dare explain about the trouble I was in with Holloway University.
'Because we need to find out three things, love. One is a man called Floggell, whose help I need to, er, find a painting. Tinker, Floggell's down to you.'
'No, Lovejoy,' Lydia persisted. 'I mean we could have gone an extra Tube stop, and saved fare.'
'The antiques dealers would have seen us arrive together, Lydia,' I said, striving for sanity.
Trout's laconic gaze fixed me, clearly thinking we'd do better without Lydia's painful morality. Tinker began coughing, suffering from beer ache.
'I see!' she trilled, delighted. 'Deception! So as not to be noticed!'
'That's it, Lydia,' I said with gravity.
'What do I do, Lovejoy?' Trout asked. 'That pig Gluck knows me.'
'Padpas, Trout. Remember I said Dosh Callaghan got zuzzed when somebody sold him some tsavorites?'
'Right, Lovejoy.'
'Lydia, love, go down the King's Road, Chelsea. The Lovely Colette. Find out what antiques they're buying or selling.'
'Lovely Colette Antiques (Chelsea)?' She has several grimaces, all of them enticing. We watched, lusting in our various ways, as her expression cleared. 'Clocks, Lovejoy. They bid for clocks, plus early scientific instruments. Shall I ask them for a list?'
'No, love,' I said, broken. 'Try subterfuge. Pretend. Surreptitiously.' I couldn't think of any other synonym except disguise, and her wondrous figure made that a clear impossibility.
'Isn't that rather underhanded, Lovejoy?'
'Yes, I'm afraid it is, Lydia.' I avoided Trout's eyes. 'But we owe it to Arthur. He was a friend.'
She was doubtful. 'I shall have to find a way without lying.'
'Right, everybody. Meet tomorrow teatime, Portobello Road antiques market at the Duke of Wellington pub, or the Earl of Lonsdale near the beer garden.'
Tinker coughed explosively. Even the Tower Hill traffic faltered as his rumbling roar quivered through the ancient streets. I sighed. I'd mentioned booze.
'I'll need to clear me bronchials before then, Lovejoy.'
'Oh, do let me!' Lydia rummaged in her handbag. He osmosed the notes without moving a muscle. 'One thing, Lovejoy. Do you mean actually inside a common tavern?'
'No, love,' I said politely. 'I'll meet you at the Corner Market. There's a line of street stalls. One specializes in dolls, a silver stall, then one selling oriental porcelains.'
I warned them all not to get lost. Portobello Road can be a right maelstrom.
'Lovejoy. Where,' Lydia asked daintily, 'shall you sleep tonight? Time is getting on.
Bermondsey market will already be closed.'
'I'll work through the night. Trout has friends. And Tinker knows a pal who keeps a fish and chip shop.'
They knew better than contradict my lies.
'But what if we miss each other tomorrow?'
'Then meet in Camden Passage the day following, same time.'
Camden Passage's unbelievable surge is a stunning antiques success story. It's now the front runner, having outstripped the East End, Portobello, Bermondsey.
Mechanically I leant to buss her cheek as usual but she swiftly gave my hand a solemn shake instead.
'Very well, Lovejoy. Tomorrow, the corner hostelry in Portobello Road. Good afternoon.'
We chorused awkward goodbyes and watched her walk off up Trinity Square towards the Tube station. Trout cleared his throat. I waited. I wasn't going to have any criticism.
