One left.
The figure was huddled in a corner. It had a cushion, and sat lopsidedly on the end of a stone step. A black cloth bag bulged nearby.
The drinkers on the benches were watching. I cleared my throat. Ready, steady.
'Stay, pay, and make hay?' I asked it. I knew better than use her name.
No response. I tugged its bag string. The figure exploded, unravelled, came alert spitting, then froze.
'Smear me into a grease blob. Wasn't that what you said?'
The apparition was like nothing on earth. She sat there looking seventy years old, hair matted. I realized I'd recoiled, tried to apologize with a pace forward. She wore thick dungarees now, stuffed into old boots.
'Oh, Lovejoy,' she said. 'You came.'
'Think I wouldn't? I'd have come sooner.'
'Too late.' It was only half-nine, but she didn't mean o'clock.
'So come along all the quicker.'
She simply rose and walked with me, not even looking towards the other dossers. Her bag dangled. She used to take two hours to get ready, even for an auction. Things change, or have I said that?
We went to a sandwich nook near Old Compton Street, still jumping - well, hopping a bit. I had a good gape at her in the light, ignoring the askance looks the counter girls gave Colette. I ordered a reasonable amount of nosh, mainly butties, soup, bakewells, a battenburg for her because she likes, liked, sweet victuals.
She ate in a desultory way, me keeping up from politeness.
'Going to tell me, then?' I said after a while, narked. 'I found Arthur.'
'You can't say grave, Lovejoy?' she said quietly. 'You never could look things straight in the eye. Get me a pole screen, William IV, rose finial, tricorn base, rococco shield design. It would save my life.' There's an old Lancashire proverb - women, priests and poultry never have enough - but here was a tided lady who'd given everything away. I lose faith in proverbs.
'Not asking much,' I groused. 'Crowned heads of Europe queue for those.'
'He'll sack me otherwise.'
'This Dieter git?' I judged her. Her features were lined. She looked pavement tribe, unwashed, lines down her cheeks in that most telling of grooves from eye to upper lip that is the nightmare of the Sloane Square sheilas. 'Let him sack you. I'll give you a job.'
Thus spake Lovejoy the indigent pauper, on his welts and having to scrounge off his apprentice to keep going. Me, get her a job? Maybe it would be as good as mine.
'I mean I'd try, love.' I might con a dealer as a favour.
'It's no good, Lovejoy. I'm like you, a street lover. I can't do without antiques. I'd die if Dieter sacked me. I mean it.'
She'd got it bad. I noshed mechanically. I've never known dedication except for two reasons. One, sex. Two, antiques. Dunno which order, probably joint winners. She didn't look as if she'd got two Chippendales to rub together, so I reckoned that she and this Dieter Gluck…
'Silly cow,' I said, in a caring, compassionate way. 'You've no longer got an antiques business. You've nowhere to kip, no clothes. You look like you've not eaten for a fortnight. You're ferreting in dross with the lowlifes. Haven't you taken a look at yourself?' This was a once-stunning woman I used to make exuberant smiles with.
'I must stay with my antiques trade.' She said it flatly, like her soul had been starched rigid in emotion.
'Are you and Gluck, y'know?'
'Were.' She smiled bitterly. 'Until he'd got Saffron Fields and our firm.'
'I know. I went. The vicar told me about the funeral.'
'I've been stupid, Lovejoy.' She spoke on quickly as I drew breath. 'But I must stay here, and work for Dieter.'
'Street grubbing isn't working. It's dying.' I thought a bit. 'What are you protecting, love?'
Her smile went bitter. 'You suspicious sod, Lovejoy.'
I gave her the Cantonese bowl. It looked even tinier in the sandwich bar's glarey lighting. 'Got it from Flymo. He was too spooked to find you in the churchyard. Didn't,' I said pointedly, 'want to sink so low in society.'
'Oh, Lovejoy.' Her eyes filled. 'I've made such a mess of things. It's no good. There's no way out. I was dreading you coming to interfere. I pinned my faith on Tinker being in gaol.'
True. With Tinker banged up, I wondered how many more tragedies I'd not heard of lately.
'There's always a way out, love.'
'Arthur used to say that. I've learned different.'
'It's Dieter Gluck, isn't it?'
'I trusted him. Arthur didn't, of course. But then,' she said sadly, 'Arthur also had your number. From the start, he knew about you and me. Never said a single word. A gentleman.'
Her eyes went past me, widened in alarm. I heard the door go with that sucking swish they make. A hand grabbed my neck and lifted me bodily from the chair. The other customers stared. Colette's expression became fright.
