Goodnight.'
'Er, goodnight,' I said formally. Like leaving a tavern instead of a bloodbath.
Jasper scornfully watched me disembark. I could tell he still thought me pathetic. I patted him. One thing, though. I've always believed in country folk. True friends, always there when you need a helping hand. I've always loved and admired every single one. Countryside, too.
38
NOON NEXT DAY Kettle made a monosyllabic statement to the police. I made mine, over and over the same thing. I denied seeing anybody. I told them that I'd stood on the lonely seashore, waiting for Gluck. He never arrived.
'Why there, Lovejoy?' the police kept asking.
'No idea.'
'Why the longboat? Why sail down a disused canal?'
'Because the customer said so.' I did a routine shrug. 'I've done deals in dafter places than the seaside. And used loonier vehicles than a barge.'
'We know that, Lovejoy,' a newish CID bloke called Wendlesham said politely. 'You have a rum history. But three corpses seems excessive. Especially as they're all known to you.' A shotgun was found in the canal by police divers. I'd been shown it. I'd shrugged. It was some Belgian import. I knew it would be untraceable.
For a tenth time I went over my encounters with Wrinkle. My meeting Honor I described as a polite handshake, not a burglar's eye view of her naked seduction of Wrinkle on his workbench. I'd not seen them, I told Wendlesham piously, since I bumped into Wrinkle at Lord's, and visited his workshop at Hymie's in Spitalfields.
Wendlesham woke up at that. The plod love sports. 'Didn't know you followed cricket, Lovejoy. Who was playing?'
Whoops. 'Er, the West Indies, I think.' Silence. Wrong? His eyebrows met in a frown.
'India?' I offered hopefully. Who the hell had Wrinkle been so gloomy about? 'Australia?'
'You dozed off, I expect,' he said.
'I was after some cricket memorabilia,' I invented, wildly trying to remember the names of some ancient cricketers. A schooldays poem surfaced. 'Er, Hornby and Barlow were batting, I think.'
Strangely, they didn't press me on the point. A few extra repetitions, they let me go. I left, a prickly feeling between my shoulders. I couldn't believe it when I got on the train and not a plod in sight. What the hell had happened to Wrinkle?
The New Caledonian Market was coming off the boil when I finally got there. I caught sight of myself in a dressing glass, first antique wholesaler's on the right, and said 'God Almighty!' I looked a wreck.
'Cheap, too!' The dealer was canting to Lydia, but mistook my exclamation for admiration. Canting means to extol, prior to a sale. He mistook Lydia for gormless, which she's not, and an innocent, which she is.
'No, love.'
I stayed Lydia's hand. She was writing a cheque. Not a single vibe. The small porcelain-framed mirror 'dressing glass' was made to hang on a wall above a plain dressing table.
Find a genuine one, it will buy you a three-year holiday cruise, with cash to spend at every port of call. No kidding.
'Look, Lovejoy!' She pointed. 'It says Royal Furbil Pottery, AD 1722: She'd been crying, so I was kind. 'No, love. 'Royal' as a precursor only came in about 1850.'
'Ere, what's your game?' The dealer belligerently pushed between us. 'I'm trying to earn a living—'
I'd had enough. 'Want me to date the rest of your stock, mate?' I offered. 'Announce fake or genuine to every buyer in Bermondsey?'
'Smart-arse.' He watched us leave. After a moment he called, 'You're Lovejoy, are yer?'
Then he grinned, unpleasant. 'Good luck.'
'What is it, love? Not more bad news, surely to God.'
People were already drifting away. All antiques markets start and end early, though they're tending towards normal shop hours as years pass. I'd be lucky to find the people I wanted. There were things to settle.
Bravely Lydia stifled her sob. 'There's been a terrible accident. Have you heard?' I said no. She continued, 'Tinker told me, but I have no details. That nice policeman was leaving the hospital.'
She meant Mr Saintly. 'How are they?'
'Tinker is recovering. Poor Trout.' She took advantage of the diminishing throng to blot her eyes. 'He will be lame, Lovejoy. Still, he has survived. Not like poor Dieter.' Which made me glance at her. Sobs for mad murderer Gluck, dry eyes for a dwarf savagely mangled into additional deformity?
I said it just to make sure. 'What terrible news.'
'And that horrid old bag hag has reclaimed Dieter's antique shop in Chelsea and Saffron Fields. Is it fair, Lovejoy? Dieter was such a gentleman!'
'It's okay,' I said, content now I knew who the tears really were for. Trout was right.
Some things I had to leave Lydia out of. 'Look, love. You know Edwina Holleran? Small, bonny, deals in silver? You met her in her dad's silver place where—'
'She showed you her skills?' Lydia completed sweetly. 'In a dark corner of the workshop? Yes, I do remember,
