'Who is he?'
'Their son. His name's Mortimer.'
They hadn't a son. 'Colette's and Arthur's?'
She replied drily, 'We presume so, Lovejoy. Do you know different?'
'No, no.' I repeated this in the interests of veracity. 'Where is he?'
'Haunting the markets, but in a different way from Colette. You never see him, but you couldn't miss Colette. Sight, smell.'
'Son?' I said. 'As in reproducing?'
'My godson, you see,' Auntie Vi shocked me by saying. 'I stood for him. Gaylord's his godfather.' Her eye glared defiance and accusation. 'We're not much, Lovejoy, but we're all the team Mortimer has.'
'Named after some flintlock gunmaker, Lovejoy,' Gaylord said. 'The name was Colette's idea. Never said who the father was, though.'
Henry Walklate Mortimer was one of the truly great gunsmiths of olden days. He ranks with Nock, Manton, Wogden, Wilkinson, Durs Egg. I know their names as well as my own. I felt my eyes water, Vi's horrible pipe.
'Wish you'd dock that frigging tobacco, Vi. It's corroding my lungs.'
'Tell him, Auntie,' Gaylord said.
'There's one bait Dieter Gluck can't resist, Lovejoy.'
'What is it?' I looked, one to the other.
Auntie Vi puffed smoke like a blanket signal.
'He's a snob,' she said. 'A complete and utter snob.'
There came a knock on the door. A voice I knew outside said that if Lovejoy was in there he should come out, please, to be arrested. I opened the door, and walked to the waiting police motor with Mr Saintly. Never there when you want one, and always there when you don't, the plod.
16
AN INTERESTED CROWD gathered outside. To ironic cheers, I ducked , shamefaced into Saintly's motor while everybody laughed and pointed, hey, look, our good old police arresting a crook, serves him right.
'Look, guv,' I started in a Richter Four whine, 'I didn't—'
'That will do, Lovejoy.'
He sat beside me, fingering the card I'd written my message to Arthur on. A serf ploddite drove us along the No. 15 bus route until he could park in an illegal space.
'Divvy, that's what you are, Lovejoy. Hence this scrawl. I only just put two and two together.' He gestured me to shut up in case I wanted to exercise my right to freedom of speech. 'That's my favourite London bus, Lovejoy, the old Number Fifteen. East Ham, Piccadilly Circus, Ladbroke Grove.'
'It's—' I started.
The driver turned, looked, so I shut up. Freedom of speech is for overlords.
Saintly went on, 'Plod having favourite bus routes, eh?' The way he spoke was reflective. I didn't like this. Like seeing them smile, you just know something's wrong. 'I like the old Seventy-eight. Shoreditch, Bermondsey market, Dulwich. You see a lot from a London bus. And the One Five Nine - odd those yellow numbers, don't you think?' He paused, letting me chance a verb. I stayed silent. 'Oxford Circus to Streatham Hill.'
Did he know I'd called on Sorbo?
'Last night you caused a disturbance in a Soho caff. Why?'
'By accident I met an old friend. I stood her a cuppa. Some passing bloke misunderstood. I scarpered.'
'Not quite, Lovejoy.' So far he'd only stared out of the window. 'It was Dame Colette Goldhorn, widow of Arthur, lately owner of Lovely Colette Antiques, and a manorial estate in East Anglia. Both properties are now owned by Mr Gluck.'
'She's still a friend.'
Now he did look at me. 'You're visiting a lot of old friends, Lovejoy. Your path keeps crossing Gluck's.'
'So what, Mr Saintly? I'm in antiques, and Mr Gluck's an antiques dealer. I'm employed to find some torn - jewellery, gems. I didn't want to come to the Smoke. I got sent.'
'Why the recruiting drive?' I didn't answer. 'You're collecting enough old pals to start a war, Lovejoy.'
'Me?' I acted bitter, not difficult in these circumstances. 'You've done your homework, Mr Saintly. You'll know that I'm the bloke whose bread always hits the floor marmalade side down. Whose grapefruit always spits in my eye, whose girl spots me admiring another woman's legs. I know not to go on crusades.'
'Oh, I do know you're a prat, Lovejoy,' he said reasonably. The serf in the driving seat snickered. 'My question is, are you a dangerous prat?'
I'd had enough, but you never dare say so. 'At Gaylord's caravan you told me to come out and be arrested. They're wrong words, aren't they? I'm not actually nicked.'
'I don't want you troubling eminent Chelsea businessmen. Understand?'
'Yes, sir.' A grovel never does harm.
'And your old friend Arthur Goldhorn simply misjudged his dose of digoxin. Nothing sinister. It's what sick folk do. Understand?'
