Lovejoy.'
''Every silver furnace is in a dark corner,' I said, narked. 'When you anneal silver you have to judge its heat by naked eye. You can only do it in darkness, see?' I grew vehement. Women always blame me. 'I wasn't doing anything. She was showing me how to turn, spin and work over.'
Her sorrow evaporated in new annoyance. 'And you were so thrilled, spinning and turning! How could I possibly forget dear Edwina!'
'Stop it. You make her sound like a bloody spider. She'll be in Camden Passage tonight.
Tell her the deal's on, okay?'
'Very well, Lovejoy.'
We separated by the church. Everything still felt wrong.
The market was folding. I'm always sad, seeing the trestles stacked under tarpaulins, hearing the barrows rattle away on the stones. It's civilization ending. Even the last vans revving up make me sorrowful. Dealers were making final come-on deals, the sort that sound a brilliant bargain and never are. From a throng of thousands, maybe a couple of hundred listless refugee customers were left. Tip: these woebegone remnants who can't bear to leave are hopeless. Lovejoy's Law: Never be the first or last to buy, but sell any time.
Not all was dross today, though, as the shadows lengthened. Mimi Welkinshaw was still trying to flog one last bargain - a pair of flatback brown-and-white pottery dogs for Victorian mantelpieces. They're ten-a-penny antiques, meaning a week's wage nowadays and ugly as sin. Every bloke with a backyard big enough turned out these King Charles's spaniels in the Black Country, no telling exactly who. A little cluster of expectant dealers goggled at Mimi's last performance. Next to her van Palace Alice was folding her awning. Beyond, Gaylord Fauntleroy loaded gunge into his motor while his one-eyed Auntie Vi sat smoking her foul pipe on their trailer steps. I could hear Hello Bates doing his familiar shout, getting only the occasional 'Sod off, Batesy.' Sir Ponsonby was popping a champagne cork, Moiya December holding the glasses. She was back on station, seeing that times - and available personnel - had changed.
'What went wrong, Lovejoy?' some lass said, strolling past.
'Eh?' I halted. It was Billia.
She stopped, furtive. A barrow dealer boxing up his fake kakeimon vases hopefully started a harangue. I drew her on.
'I thought I wasn't supposed to know you, Lovejoy!' she said.
I was at least as thunderstruck as she was. Why wasn't she in gaol? Okay, so I didn't need the phoney robbery at Dulwich Picture Gallery any longer, Gluck being dead. But at least my plans should be working somewhere, however phoney. She was only a red herring, for God's sake. Even plans I'd assumed tightly knitted were unravelling.
'Why,' I began, then halted. I could hardly expect an answer to why aren't you arrested with your bloke Dang, when I'd betrayed her dud burglary attempt to the police. 'Why did you say that, Billia?'
We drew in the shadow of trestle stacks for further incoherence.
'Me and Dang did everything you said, Lovejoy. Nobody came.'
'Great.' I thought quickly. 'It's been postponed to tonight. I'll be doing it with you.'
She looked full of doubt, untrusting cow. I'd sweated my socks off for this woman, risked my life among maniacs, and she hadn't the loyalty to catch the Dulwich bus?
People are rotten. 'Honest, Lovejoy?'
'Of course honest,' I said, narked.
'And you'll have the money to get Dang off?'
'Hand on my heart, Billia.' A bonny lass, but what a blinking pest. I got rid of her by pretending I was being beckoned by an important illegal importer. 'He's a pal of that Caravaggio conspiracy geezer,' I lied quickly. 'Sotheby's and all that. Don't be late tonight, love.'
And escaped into the dwindling market. Nothing sadder than a folding street market or a fading day. I know one forger, English watercolours, who can only work at teatime in autumn as the light dwindles. I've never yet seen him smile. It must be his soul. This attractive woman stopped me, said hello.
'Is that you?' I asked. Is there a dafter question? Nobody can say no, can they?
'Colette, Lovejoy.' Her smile was radiant. She was dressed to kill. Hair done, teeth a-dazzle, clothes guinea-an- inch. 'You approve?'
Bags under her eyes, though. A facial and new earrings can't hide heartbreak. Yet hadn't her Mortimer been saved from death? And herself from poverty? And, small point, by me? That's a woman for you.
'Beautiful, love.' She'd probably dressed up for me. It was her sign that we were going to resume where we'd left off. I warmed to her. 'You look good enough to eat.
Congrats.'
'Yes.' Bravely she forced a smile. 'When we signed everything over to Dieter there was a legal who-goes-last clause.' Her lovely lip trembled. 'I now realize that Dieter, poor lamb, intended to make sure he alone was left. He was driven to it, of course. He'd been awfully deprived as a child.'
'Him and Honor,' I said, cruelly, but wanting to know.
'That bitch is well dead,' Colette said with venom. 'Dieter was easily led. Handsome men with ambition, falling into the hands of some evil old crone like her,' et unbelievable cetera.
A rag, a bone, and a hank of hair? Maybe - plus a fearsome power of self-delusion.
'Moiya December's consoling herself, I see.'
The pretty lass was sprawled on the bonnet of Sir Ponsonby's motor, eating cherries in what can only be called an erotic manner while the world held its breath.
