'She's another whore,' Colette said.
'Look, love. Sign Saffron Fields over to Mortimer before the day's out,' I begged. 'I'd hate for things to go askew at this stage.'
'It's already done,' she said. 'Through Arthur's old lawyer.'
Relief swept over me. 'Deo gratias. Love, you seen Sorbo?'
'He was here,' she said. A ripple of laughs made me look. Mimi had sold her gruesome dogs. She was taking the money, walking across for a last word with Auntie Vi. 'Keep in touch, Lovejoy.'
Not for me after all. Forlorn hope. Colette was already moving on. I mean, Dieter Gluck was a crazed killer, yet he'd had Lydia, Colette, Honor, Moiya all panting after him. Is life fair? I wandered to the three remaining stalls still on the go, when Sorbo touched my arm. He still wore his ancient frock coat, was fat as a duck.
'Lovejoy? He wants you. In Fauntleroy's trailer.'
'Who, Sorbo?' It could only be one of two.
'Saintly. Sorry, Lovejoy.'
Sorry is the traitor word. I went in, lamb to the slaughter, through Auntie Ws carcinogenic cloud. Sorbo stood back. I passed Fauntleroy, his attire gaudier than ever.
First time I'd ever seen him looking pale. He was watching me on the pavement.
Saintly's driver waved Auntie Vi and Fauntleroy away. Fine time to discover the truth, I thought bitterly. Always stupid until it's too late. 39
SAINTLY LOOKED PARTICULARLY dapper today. Some folk are smarmy. I tend to envy them because it looks cool.
'What, sir?' I said.
'Door, please.'
I shut it. He was sipping sherry from a fair-sized glass square-foot goblet. Some duckegg had clumsily engraved a two-budded English rose on it. This was the Jacobite emblem, the two buds being the Old and Young Pretenders. The goblet was modern pressed glass, yet an innocent buyer might believe some dealer's persuasive patter and buy the pathetic fake. Fauntleroy routinely sold such monstrosities.
'Remain standing, Lovejoy.'
As if with great reluctance he sighed, put his dud glass down.
'What am I here for?' Suddenly I couldn't do speech properly. Yet surely I was safe, the Bermondsey market still wrapping up out there? Except you can have one too many maniacs.
'To realize the truth, Lovejoy.' He bent forward, stared into me. 'Jesus, you already have! I'd never have believed it!' Satisfied, he nodded in self-congratulation.
'You are Gluck's principal backer, Mr Saintly.'
Best I could do. I didn't want to say the rest, in case it hurried him into doing something I'd regret. Yet I was still safe, in Bermondsey's daylight. All he could do was arrest me, right?
Saintly agreed, 'I did contribute money, plus influence.'
'I don't see why.'
'That's because you're a member of the fucking ignorant public.' It was a sudden snarl.
He rose, strode at me, clouted me sideways. 'I'm paid a pittance, Lovejoy. To take responsibility for filth like you. What do I get for it? A paltry pension and a tinfoil gong.
I had a decent thing going. Dieter and me go back years. It was me brought him in.
Then you came along, you absurd bastard.'
My mouth was bleeding. I righted myself, more trembly than I should have been. Odd, because I'd been knocked silly before and felt better than this.
'As far as I'm concerned you can get on with it,' I said shakily. 'Please let me go.'
'And you 'won't say anything', is that it?'
'Honest. I'll help you to do the Dulwich job. Gluck's dead.'
'I can't understand why Wendlesham let you go, Lovejoy.' He seemed reflective, an academic discussing haiku poetics. 'Clearly, it was you who somehow killed Dieter.'
'I never touched him or his two pals.'
'Three pals,' he jeered. 'Don't forget Bern.' '
'Was that Sorbo's doing?' It just came out in astonishment.
'Me and Gluck shared the honours. Sorbo's a nonentity, just does as he's told. Can you imagine? A bruiser like Bern getting fond of an ageing trollop like Colette? He tried reasoning with Dieter and me, after I'd ordered him to dust you over the night you traced Colette to St Anne's churchyard.' Saintly fetched out Sorbo's Nock weapon.
Simultaneously, I saw the empty maroon bag. It had held Sorbo's antique Nock double-barrelled flintlock. I should have realized the beautiful antique was what made me feel odd. Sorbo's presence outside should have tipped me off. The bag was squashed flat beneath Saintly's drinking glass. Which meant the spherical lead bullets and powder flask had come into use.
Look at one of these exquisite weapons in the Tower of London's Armories - lately shifted to Leeds - and you can't help thinking, how pretty! No wonder Gluck had been hooked on Regency flintlocks. Brown, with a subdued matt shine, six-inch barrels set side by side, the loveliest engravings ever done. A miracle of engineering. Never mind that Samuel Nock must have been insanely jealous of his famed uncle, the great Henry Nock. He did all right for himself in Regent Street, becoming Gunmaker-in-Ordinary to all the monarchs. I found myself smiling, extending
