that?' and roll in the aisles. And those wide Windsor bags, trousers with creases unbelievably pressed sideways – the late Duke of Windsor's only contribution to civilization, 'tis said – make you think, 'God in heaven, who donned those?'
'You know the drill?'
I'd gone over it as we'd driven over in Jacko's coal wagon, him my last resort singing bad opera as we clattered across East Anglia. They were still dusting themselves down, Tina and Wilhelmina – mercifully minus her shahtoosh – were angry. So was I, because they'd made a special dress effort when I'd told them not to. On a scale of ten, I felt twice as narked.
'I thought it was a real production, Lovejoy,' Larch said. Jules was quiet, sensing my desperation.
'Larch, it's more real than you'd ever imagine.'
'I'm nervous,' Wilhelmina whispered as Taylor Eggers came to the door and smilingly beckoned us. 'What if I forget the signal?'
'You won't, love.' If she'd podded off her woollen and done as I said, she must have serious gelt. The thought of all that profit from her granny's shawl made me realize how lovely she was. I felt myself redden as Tina caught me looking. (See? Women's glances.)
Susanne Eggers was waiting, smoking elegantly, seated in the library. I recognized a silver-framed photograph of Arthur Goldhorn, RIP, and his missus with a bonny baby boy. The boy was, is, Mortimer. His mother lives in sordid but affluent sin among muscle dancers in Soho, Bondi Beach and other exotic climes. I don't really miss her.
Mrs Eggers was reading a volume set on a wooden Moorish stand, beautifully carved.
I'd sweated blood carving that from Resak wood for Mortimer's parents' wedding. I don't really like paler woods; the dark brown smooth varieties are a delight. Seasoning Resak drives you mad, of course, but it's the carver's friend for hard, heavy, classy joinery. Her book was modern and therefore gunge, meaning printed after 1939.
'Wait,' she commanded, not looking.
We waited. Mr Eggers smiled, bustled, nobly held himself back from offering us chairs or tea. Larch, Tina, and Wilhelmina were frozen in awe of the money lady. Jules used the moments silently sussing out the room's antiques.
He'd done five years, three with remission for good behaviour, mainly for seducing the Countess, whenever she commanded him to do so. He used to drive her pantechnicon to Eastern Europe. It was loaded with relief supplies to the Balkans after mayhem set people refugeeing all over the place. Sounds rum? Not really, because charities are the biggest ripoffs on earth. (You know the scam: please send us money so we can feed the Hungry Out There, et phoney cetera.) If in doubt, check any major charity. It'll have splendid offices, highly paid staff living in tree-lined suburbs with swimming pools and servants. Think of the United Nations and the World Bank, and there you have it. I call the lot of them Crooks, Inc.
The Countess is a major antiques dealer near Long Melford. She funds ('from my profits, daaahlink!' she always says at her trials) heart-rending charity runs. Folk –
meaning you – donate clothes, money, medical supplies, and off the great vehicles go.
One convoy's leading lorry was driven by Jules. It got stopped because some well-meaning Customs blokes wanted to give some medicines to the convoy, and discovered that Jules's wagon was ramjam packed with antique furniture, silver, porcelain, and paintings, not a single crust or a bandage. The clean lorries went on. Jules earned the villification of the entire nation. The Countess naturally went scotage free ('Ay didn't know a thing, daaahlink!') and still lives on donations nicked from her charities, antiques, and men, more or less in that order. Local dealers felt almost nearly sincerely sorry for Jules, but secretly rejoiced that a rival dealer was removed to where he couldn't compete, namely in nick. Ten minutes after his conviction, the entire trade was back dealing with the Countess. This was why I'd told Tina to pick him, from sympathy.
Always a duckegg.
'Right.' Mrs Eggers closed the book with a thud and surveyed us. She looked even better today, a superb royal blue satin dress, with baroque pearls that must be Scotch naturals from Perth, earrings to match, gold bangles. She was worth the county, me thrown in. 'Names.'
'I'm Lovejoy. This is Tina. Wilhelmina. Larch and, er, Jules.'
'You're all divvies, I believe. Score these antiques correctly. Some, I'm told, are forgeries, others not.' She crossed to a sofa table, its leaves raised for maximum space.
On it stood four antiques. Straight off I saw her ploy: choose right, you were in; get one wrong, off with your head. 'Men first, women next, in,' she commanded icily, 'order of age. Cards and pencils.'
Taylor smilingly handed out cards, beaming. 'They're numbered from the left. Put a tick or a cross,' and retired grinning like a Cheshire cat. I wished he'd frown. I distrust smiley folk the same way I hate charmers.
Jules stepped forward, walked along the four antiques, marking his card. He initialled the back and handed it to Taylor. Larch took his time. Tina then Wilhelmina followed suit. I didn't like the way Larch posed, swirled and pondered, mmmhing and fingering his chin. Silly melodrama stuff. Wilhelmina tried for some mythical part in Rebecca, hoping the non-existent cameras were catching her best side.
'Lovejoy?' To my stare Mrs Eggers said angrily, 'Go on, dolt.'
Me too? I got a card, went along the row. The sofa table was not genuine, though somebody had had a high old time doing french polishing, kidding us it was a genuine sofa table of about 1820 that had been fopped up in late Victorian times. More crud, by definition. To check, I leaned down as if to adjust my shoe, and looked along the grain.
The surface was entirely without pores. Now, you can't have this, not by the original french polishing techniques, so somebody had cleverly used an alkyd wash. This spreads out of its own accord, giving you the pluperfectly level finish. Then you can polish any way you like to your heart's content, because the lovely table will come up like a genuine table that some Regency lady would use for tea while reclining in languor on her sofa to the admiration of her visitors. I'd signalled it false to the others, but I gave it a tick, for genuine.
A pewter drinking goblet was early Victorian. Some burke had tried to clean its patina off with potash or soda (some nerks use ammonia; they should be gaoled). It was genuine right enough, but I grew angry for the poor little vessel. Homemade, probably, or recast by some wandering tinsmith. They went from village to village in the old
