a trembling hand. I moved carefully. Both flints were fully cocked. One touch on the triggers and—
'No, Lovejoy.' Saintly watched me, so pleased. 'I've never seen you do it before - your divvy trick. Just look at you. Shaking like a leaf, sweat trickling off you. No wonder Dieter said you were essential.'
'What happens now?' I asked, wiping my clammy face with a sleeve.
'I sail into the Mediterranean with Moiya, for as long as she serves me as I wish. Sir Ponsonby and Sorbo do Wrinkle's place over when things cool down.'
'Things?' I asked hoarsely. 'What things?'
'The one thing left.' He smiled. 'You. I'm afraid this terminates your contract with, well, everybody. I've already dictated Sorbo's statement. He actually has it in his pocket, to hand to me after we enact this charade.'
'You rotten sod.'
'He will testify that he's just sold you this flintlock. You've made no secret of your desire for it these past years. My tale is, you came in here and threatened me with it. We struggled. It went off. You perished.'
'Please don't,' I cried out, backing away, hands outstretched. 'I'll do anything—'
And the world suddenly spoke. I really do mean the whole world thundered, like the voice of God.
'Mr Saintly,' a voice boomed. The trailer resonated. 'This is the police. Put down your weapon and come out.'
Crockery rattled. It was like an earth tremor. Saintly looked stunned.
'Who, Lovejoy?' he asked quietly. 'You're wired, aren't you?'
'Eh? Me? No!' I yelled. 'I don't know what fucking wired means! Honest to God! I only ever do as I'm told for God's sake—'
'Lovejoy's ignorant, Mr Saintly,' the heavens thundered. I felt the vibes of every syllable.
'Step out. Lay your weapon aside.'
'It's you, Lovejoy,' Saintly said, extending the flintlock. The twin muzzles looked Chunnel-sized.
'No!' I shouted. 'Please! I know nowt—'
He pressed the triggers. I saw his fingers whiten. Both flints slammed forward onto their steels. Sparks flew.
Nothing.
Nothing. I tottered to the door, opened it onto a still world. Individuals were standing frozen all about the market, listening, watching. It was Eisenstein's Nevsky. Sir Ponsonby stood among uniformed policemen with Moiya.
Sorbo was handcuffed near a police car. Sturffie was there, silent among a cluster of others, including Palace Alice, Gaylord and Auntie Vi.
And Lydia, with the portly gent I'd seen before, who'd followed us everywhere. No bowler hat this time, just country tweeds and plus-fours. I wondered how often he'd changed his guises while he trailed me around. He had a small microphone. When he spoke it made me jump.
'It's over, Mr Saintly. Show yourself.'
I went down the steps and walked away through the silent market. I'd felt shame before, but not like this.
40
DAWNS COME OVER our estuaries, rather than simply up out of the east. They steal in over the bluish sapphire sea marsh as if direction hardly matters. They could start from any point of the compass, west, north, anywhere. I'd been watching the team place buoys and markers since four o'clock. Tides decide hours.
Mortimer had gone with me. Not because I'm scared of the dark or anything, honest, only because I might not have known the way. Mr Hartson silently joined us about fiveish. Bert and Ake, amateur enthusiasts, were using a fantastic metal gadget to locate the crashed aircraft. Mat, Lisa's illicit boyfriend, had joined them. He'd helped to rig Arthur's massive underwater magnet on its drag ropes. It worked a treat. Nice blokes, I thought, shame about their hobby. There's horror in our seashores. Like the bodies of Rapparee Cove near Ilfracombe, where all sixty slaves drowned in the London in 1796, which sank with all hands. The blokes were dressed like goggle-eyed black frogs.
'It's marvellous!' Bert called. 'Fifth marker in an hour!'
'Great, Bert,' I said. I was merely glad it was Bert who kept rising to the surface and not some gruesome apparition.
'Dad knew it would work,' Mortimer confided.
'Great, Mort.'
'Arthur was a true craftsman,' Mr Hartson added.
A little oblique criticism in there? I didn't glance at him. I got the idea it was goodbye time, leave Mortimer to resume his ownership of Saffron Fields, title, mulberry tree and all, and get the hell back to dusty antiques.
Three other amateur divers arrived as daylight took hold. Mercifully two of their birds motored up with tea and buttered crumpets in some magic hot box, to save civilization.
By mid-morning the marker team had pegs and ropes placed over half the mudflat. A crowd of knowalls assembled to express assorted ignorance. Ake, Mat, and Bert flopped over to report. They addressed Mortimer, not me.
'It looks real, Mortimer,' Ake said, swigging from his woman's flask. Mat and Bert looked at Ake. They were deciding who should say it.
