We've left that behind in Charlie Chaplin films. But it's still about, if you look.
Or if you happen to know somebody like Colette. Who must therefore be protecting somebody dear to her. Who else but her son Mortimer? Presumably he was the lone singer at his dad's funeral in the forest by the vineyard.
Admittedly only half a tale, but there were glimmerings. I'd get Lydia to piece it together, while I thought of patina and what conceivably might lie beneath. For the first time I felt real hope. For me it's usually not a good omen, but despair makes ghosts, so hope's better.
17
OPPOSITE THE EARL of Lonsdale tavern (there was this sign, WOMEN something. It made me think of Colette, and the son she was protecting by becoming Gluck's slag. I couldn't work it out, because motive is rubbish. Maybe I was tired, but the five letters kept rearranging themselves. Strange, the words you can make from that one word, women. Own. New. We. Nemo. I even got a weird sentence: Now women own me, owe no new woe. Woe? The daft game set me nodding off.
Trout was the first to enter. 'Tinker's about, Lovejoy. Just saw him.'
'Them padpas, Trout?' Every time we met he got smaller. I got him some bar grub. He looked famished.
'Your pal Sturffie was the one who sold them, handed them to Chev for delivery. Chev's the courier man, from Aldgate East. He's still in Edinburgh.'
Bad news. Sturffie might have supplied honest padpa gems, and this Chev could have swapped them. Or Sturffie'd gone bad.
Tinker came a few yards behind his thunderous cough, clearing spaces through the late afternoon drinkers. I'd had the foresight to have three pints on the table waiting with some pasties.
He engulfed two pints, then said hello.
'Floggell's the pits, Lovejoy,' he gravelled out. 'I asked him to help. He chucked me out.'
'Floggell?' I couldn't believe it. 'He's a pal.'
'Not now, Lovejoy. He said don't come back.'
We considered this grim news. To ask an antiques burglar to burgle antiques is like asking fish to swim. Old Masters from an undeserving college, priceless Chinese celadon glaze ware from a museum, Hepplewhite furniture in somebody's home, antiques burglars will always agree. If the job's too big, they simply recruit.
'Why?' Trout asked. I was proud of him. Good question.
'Because it's you, Lovejoy. Anybody else, he'd say yes.'
Me? What had I done, except nothing? I'd come to London, seen one or two friends.
And now I'm shunned by old pals who ought to be leaping at the jobs I was bringing. It didn't make sense.
A gorgeous shadow showed in the doorway. For a second I thought it was Lydia, but this was too tall.
'How did you get on, Lovejoy?' Trout asked.
The shadow stilled, listening. This in broad daylight, dealers in and out having an ale, a truly average scene.
'Wait till Lydia gets back—'
'Er,' I interrupted loudly, 'aye, let's do that. I only spoke to Sorbo. Happened on him by chance, but he only grumbled. You know him.'
The best I could do. I went to the bar, and caught the girl's reflection. It was Sir Ponsonby's elegant lass Moiya December. Last seen in Dieter Gluck's monster Bentley.
She gave a wave and left. It wasn't odd, nothing that couldn't be explained by chance. I mean, antiques abounding, and she was an antiques gofer. Was it her fault if she overheard some idle pub talk? Her wave hadn't been directed at me. I made a stumble, which let me glance about. A stout balding man, pipe smoker, looked away in good time. He held a bowler comfortably on his knees, your routine pint-and-baccy Londoner.
After a while I went to scour for Lydia, and found her in the Hovis bakery beyond the Earl of Lonsdale. I rescued her. We all reunited in the beer garden. She'd had a whale of a time, and just adored Dieter Gluck.
'Lovely Colette Antiques is wonderful!' she trilled. 'I had a marvellous time! Herr Gluck is an absolute linguist! His manservant Bern was somewhat taciturn but—'
'What did you discover, love?' I asked. Trout gave me that look.
'Dieter was so kind! He showed me his sales book. And provided me with a list of his interests! He has a share in a restaurant. Simply smashing!'
'Smashing,' I agreed gravely. From Herr Gluck to Dieter in one.
'Lovejoy,' Trout said in his throaty bass. 'I don't believe this.'
Tinker gave Lydia a tomato juice. The world paused while she made absolutely definitely certain it was salt- free.
'Love, what questions did Gluck ask you?'
'None!' She simpered a little. 'I had to insist, or he'd have known absolutely nothing about me! I explained I was interested in his background for my newspaper.'
We breathed collective relief. 'You told him you're a reporter?'
'Of course!' She laughed merrily. 'Do the three of you assume I am totally devoid of equivocation? I said I was from the St Edmundsbury Tatler and Gazette.' She sobered.
