lingos. Once, he put 'Polyglot' for his occupation on a dole claim form, and got a letter from some thick civil servant, 'Dear Mr Polyglot. . .' And we pay their wages.
I'm in good with Cromwell. I got his fiancee off his back once. Literally, in a dancehall scrap. My intervention escaped him to Lancaster where his sister lives with a clergyman. Also, I didn't tell his lass where he'd gone, so earning Cromwell's undying gratitude. By the time he came back Feya had married a French bargee on the River Rhone.
'Whose rounder are they yakking about, Cromwell?'
'That birdman's wife owned a fake Sisley, one of the Impressionists.'
Paul Blondel, the kindly wild-bird keeper. Cromwell meant his wife Jenny who was shacked up with Aspirin.
'It went for two thousand, right?'
'Tom Keating did it, they're saying. Hence the joviality.'
Tom Keating, RIP, was my old friend. A master faker of paintings, his stuff is actually pretty ropey and wouldn't deceive anybody, though they did mucho deception in their day. Alfred Sisley ('the English Impressionist') is probably the greatest of the Imps. The paintings he dashed off in the open air are the best ever. Faker Tom was always broke.
Running out of expensive oils, Tom used poster colours blended in decorator's white. I often saw him scumble schoolkiddies' powder paint into house-painter's white. In fact I helped Tom more than once. The point is, you can't mistake modern acrylic for antique French oil paint. They shine differently. If you're too idle to look, you deserve to be ripped off.
'Cromwell,' I began with humility, as befitted asking the Lord Protector, 'what diplomat's knocking around East Anglia?'
'That Yank consul,' he said with bitterness. 'Wald Sommon by name.'
Cromwell got drummed out of the diplomatic for being found in a cupboard with an honorary consul's wife one Europe Day. A guard heard whimpers of ecstasy and wouldn't accept a bribe, which only goes to show how far standards have sunk since we gave away the Empire, thank God. Cromwell got drummed out of the Brownies without pension rights. He runs on hate.
I injected a little bitterness there myself. 'He ran over a cat near Stalham.'
'The bastard!' he breathed.
Cromwell judges local cat shows, loves them in fact. I was making it up, but so what?
The bloke had almost knocked me senseless.
'It was a big American motor. Diplomatic plates.'
He actually trembled with fury. 'Did you help the cat?'
'Eh?' I hadn't seen any bloody cat. Now I had to play out this sympathy. Wearily, I made up a cock-and-bull tale of some poor feline dragging itself, broken and bleeding, along a country road. 'I shouted. The swine drove on.'
'What did you do?' he asked, appalled.
'I was seething. I carried the poor thing to a farmhouse. They promised to look after it.
But,' I added brokenly, because I was really welling up, that poor moggie all bloodied and everything, 'they didn't hold out much hope.'
'Give me their address, Lovejoy.'
To my horror he took out a pencil. The dolt wanted to drive to the cat's rescue. I felt like yelling, 'There isn't any bleeding cat, you silly sod.'
'No, Cromwell.' I gripped his arm. 'I was trying to shield you .. .'
'It passed away?' Tears dripped from his chin.
I felt bad, especially after the way I'd struggled to save the poor cat, carrying its broken body to the dimly lit farmhouse. Except there wasn't any frigging moggie. No accident.
No thoughtless diplomat. My imagination will get me in trouble one of these days.
'Yes.' I looked into my empty glass, sighing. 'If only there was some way to get back at him. There never is, is there? You'd need money. I gave my last groat to the farmer's wife. The poor kitty deserved a decent burial.'
Cromwell took my glass. 'What'll you have, Lovejoy? Have you eaten?'
'If you insist,' I said. 'Ta. Ask Unis for a full nosh, please.'
And settled back in the warm to listen to the gossip.
During that pleasant evening – the last quiet spell for some time, though I didn't know it – Peggy Price brought me a glass to divvy. Cromwell had gone to phone somebody. I was drowsy after two meals and wine. Peggy offered me a refill, but I couldn't help thinking how she'd sped her late husband on his way with a fry-up sprinkled with sundry vitriols. I declined. She rummaged in her bag.
'This glass, Lovejoy.'
No wonder I'd gone wonky. She brought out a drinking glass in one of those bubbly plastic cases that protect against breakages. It was a beautiful piece of Anglo-Dutch soda glass, engraved with a coat-of-arms. Seventeenth century, it felt typically lightweight, its cup thin as a wafer. The surface was crizzled, all little cracks that make the glass look frosted. I used Peggy's loupe. Sure enough the engraving was shallow, mere scratches engraved with a diamond point.
'The foot's flat as a fallen arch,' I joked, giving myself time to get my breathing back.
'These Anglo-Dutch drinkers are always flat across. Anglo-Venetians have an inverted cone space underneath.'
