You even have to address her by her title in bed. (It got bizarre sometimes: 'Lie over me, doowerlink.') I suppose she insisted on it with all her blokes. There's grounds for a sociological survey on the subject, if any university out there is at a loose end. It would take time, though. There's plenty of us ex-Countess languishers about.
'You don't see the painting's resemblance, Lovejoy?'
'No, Countess.' I craned. Was it herself?
'You poor fool.' She didn't sound sympathetic, just a mite relieved.
'Have you got anything you want me to divvy?'
She seemed to wonder about laughing, decided I wasn't worth it.
'If I do another large shipment, Lovejoy, I'll send for you.'
'Thank you, Countess.'
I left then, no wiser. Odd, I thought, waiting for the bus home, that she'd commanded me to stay, when she'd only wanted to see if I could recognize a musty old portrait of a lady. I honestly couldn't. After confessing ignorance, I was banished among her cast-offs. Funny, that. I tried to forget her. If she summoned me to diwy one of her priceless frigging export shipments from Sotheby's or Christie's, I'd refuse, see how she liked it.
Actually, I'd come running. Like I say, pathetic. I waited by the bus stop, got hungry after a while, saw the village schoolchildren come out in droves. Saw the start of the village rush-hour, namely three motor cars, a farm cart and two bikes. No bus.
A car I'd seen before – but who remembers motor cars? – emerged from the Countess's antiques empire loading yard. A whiffler stood in the road to signal it out. An old Ford. I was too far off to see who was driving, but the driver had the look of Jules. Observation is overrated, I always think.
The bus was cancelled. I finally walked four miles to a neighbouring village to catch the shoppers' bus.
It rained.
17
BERNICKA WAS FURIOUS when I said she had to do the burglary with me.
'Why?' she demanded, in her grotty studio with that naming horse statue. It was worse than ever. 'You were going to do it on your own.'
'Look, love.' I smiled with great sorrow. 'Who knows Il Maestro? You.'
A woman can't resist being told that she excels in understanding love. She calmed.
'That's true.'
'How else could you have created this great, er, thing?'
'You're right.'
'How could I possibly detect the hand of the Master,' I said reasonably, 'in what I steal, unless you're there to give me proof?' I acted more sadness. 'I'm good at antiques, Bernicka, but we're talking of Leonardo's very own work. And he,' I concluded, my voice breaking with emotion, 'needs you, Bernicka.'
I tried to gaze adoringly up at the shambolic heap of gunge she'd splattered together, but couldn't manage it. She patted my shoulder.
'There, there. I understand.' Her eyes filled with tears. 'I didn't know you were so sensitive, Lovejoy. I'll come.'
Gone eleven o'clock, we hit the road in her motor and reached Tolleshunt D'Arcy just about midnight.
A great crime writer I used to know lived right in the village. We were friends, Marjorie A and me, despite her mangy blinking dog. Her husband was a sponging duckegg, tried to finish her uncompleted novels after she passed away, total failures of course. The house near the war memorial belonged now to Sir Jasper Haux. It has an enormous walled garden. I got Bernicka to park on a country road where manic anglers do night fishing, a mile from the village centre.
'You know what to do, Bernicka?'
'No.' She was nervous now she actually had to do something. She'd complained all the way, what am I doing here, I should be at home in bed.
'Wait forty minutes. I'll walk there, burgle the Haux mansion, find the Master's drawing.
You come driving slowly past, and give me a lift, okay?'
Her face shone like a green ghost's in the dashboard lights.
'Do I have to, Lovejoy?'
'Yes,' I said, cruel. 'Are you beginning to doubt your love for Leonardo?'
Honestly, women drive me spare. Here was I trying to help her, at enormous risk to life and limb, not to mention the plod, and she starts dithering. I filled up, overcome at the sacrifices I was making.
'What if the village bobby catches me, Lovejoy?' Then quickly added, 'I mean, catches you.'
This is typical: when they want to prove how daring and brave they are in the cause of True Lerve, you've to do it for them. If you're caught, you're on your own. There was a girl climbed Everest a few years back single-handed, with no help except skilled climbers and a camera crew. They made a TV documentary – carefully avoiding mention of twenty-seven tourists already at the summit.
'The cover story, doowerlink, keeps you in the clear. I phoned you for a lift.' I smiled with admiration. 'I think
