combination. 'If you'll help.'
'Soon?' she squealed. Heads turned. She whispered, 'Soon?'
'Almost soon.' I noshed a bit until people stopped listening. 'Tell me about Saffron Fields. Arthur Goldhorn who died.'
'Dieter Gluck got the estate,' she hissed instantly. 'He's hunting loans.'
Thank you, God. 'The scoop's yours, Lize. I'm talking tabloids.'
She moaned, sounding in orgasm. Now heads really did swivel. 'You're fucking beautiful, Lovejoy,' she said huskily. My fork halted. I honestly think reporters are deranged. Lust, for a mere headline? Talking to Lize is like defining north - where you're standing is vital.
'I need more, though. Tell all about friend Dieter.'
'It's yours, darling.' Darling, when so soon a swine?
By now folk nearby were craning at obtuse angles, ears flapping in the pub smog. The tavern of a thousand ears. I finished my grub. 'Let's move.'
We went to sit in the bay window.
'Some folk crave prestige, Lovejoy.' She swore for a few breaths at other people's impertinence. 'Want to be county set. They slog forty years for a tin gong. Or bribe to be photographed with the Monarch ninth footman.' She cursed equality.
'Please concentrate, love. Dieter Gluck.'
She eyed me, curious. 'He nicked Colette from you, didn't he?'
'He's leery.' I'd brought Saunty's file along, in case.
'Okay.' Her features screwed up, Lize the intrepid news hound cerebrating. 'Gluck badly needs funds. He's onto a development scheme.'
'Short of gelt when he owns the Chelsea antiques shop and Saffron Fields?'
Lize raised her eyes in exasperation.
'The mansion house is a protected stately home. The estate is a listed conservation area. Gluck came a real cropper. The instant he took possession, he spent on credit like a drunk thinking he'd snaffled a fortune. Everybody laughed. He assumed the manorial lands could be sold for development. The authorities slammed him like a ton of bricks.
You know Arthur and Colette. Nice folks, but kept poor by inherited obligations. That's why they went into antiques, trying to make a fortune.'
Good news. I rejoiced, but had the sense to look glum. 'Couldn't Gluck raise gelt on the antiques business?'
Scorn showed. 'Don't act, Lovejoy. Gluck knows less about antiques than me, even.
Ever seen his catalogues? His antiques either aren't his, or they're fakes. The bank manager turned the loan down. Can you believe it? Gluck even tried to sell the Lord of the Manor tide - until he realized it was Arthur's son, Mortimer's.'
So Gluck was shrewd, until greed and snobbery made him stupid. Better.
'What's his development scheme?' I already knew, the waterway.
'Container terminal, gateway to Europe, all that.' She brought out a small bag. It slung a million bells into me. I reeled, reached out for it, but she held it with a knowing smile.
'Every coastal village longs to be a European marina linked to the inland waterways.'
A dozen schemes had been floated, only to fade for lack of money. Gluck was into a serious game. I shuddered from the vibes of her bag.
'Please, Lize.'
Lize handed it over. It almost glowed. With trembling hands I undid the purse string, brought out a small blue disc of glass. I shook with excitement.
'Twenty!' I croaked. Ten blue, ten colourless. 'Roman gaming counters.'
There had been a number of local Roman finds, and I mean orthodox archaeological discoveries. One was at Gosbeck's Farm, where they'd unearthed a latrunculus game, almost complete with ten counters a side, but no board.
'Got anything with it?'
'Only four little metal L things, very rusted. My boyfriend Mat has a metal detector.'
She coloured slightly. So Mat was illicit. Bad news for me, though. I'd never get these gaming counters off her now without a king's ransom. When all else fails, try honesty.
'Highly valuable, Lize. It's the Roman game of 'soldiers', a sort of draughts. I think latrunculus means a highwayman. Those metal angles are the board's corners. Tell Mat to suss the whole area. Nobody's ever found a complete Roman counters game.' I looked, weighing my chances with her. 'Lucky Mat. I'm jealous.'
She reddened more. 'Don't start, Lovejoy.'
Worth a try. Love sometimes works, and passion has been known to make friends and influence people. 'Here. Your Mat really into detectors?'
'He's an electrical engineer.' She sounded resigned. 'Talk of it night and day if I'd let him. Are these bits worth reporting in the newspaper?'
'Do a special article, love. Be photographed with them. Ask Carr at St Edmundsbury, tell him I sent you. He'll give you the history.'
'Thanks, Lovejoy.'
