'It's genuine, then, Lovejoy?' Peggy breathed.
'Say that the bubbles in the stem 'exhibit the freestyle glassblower's art', or some such junk,' I advised. 'Buyers expect it.'
This actually means that if there are any bubbles in the decorative swellings in the stem, they'll be asymmetrical. This isn't a stunning instance of brilliant artistry. It's just that the glass they used in those days cooled at speed, so the glassblower didn't have time to get it even all round. It's off kilter.
She bussed me enthusiastically and asked, pen poised, 'How much, Lovejoy?'
'Hardly anything, love. Sorry.'
It had two chips on its thin rim. The flat wide foot was also chipped. A scale of glass had fallen from the bowl –water can creep into the crizzles, you see. If the glass isn't dried in the warm, the water might actually freeze and lift away a flake of the actual glass. It's heartbreaking, the way people treat their glass. Worse even than women with pearls, and that's saying something. The worst crime of all, though, is to put them through a dishwasher.
'Don't get me started, Peggy,' I said, sadly returning her glass. She was mortified.
'Will you look at some more stuff for me, Lovejoy?' she asked. 'I bought a job lot in Norwich last week, a commission for Mr Eggers. He's American, staying at Saffron Fields.'
'I've heard of him,' I said, wondering what now.
She coaxed, 'I'll stand you supper.'
Supper with our poisoner? 'Er, ta, love. Some other time.'
It was then that Unis called me over and gave me a bulky envelope.
'A street busker brought it for you, Lovejoy. Feels like money.'
'Just some newspaper cuttings,' I said, wondering who was sending me messages at this time of night.
As soon as Peggy had returned to her bar stool I slipped a finger into the envelope and saw more money than I'd ever had in my life. I put it away, casual, but Peggy was watching.
When she went to the loo I ferreted out the message, shielding it from curious dealers.
It read, Dear Lovejoy, Come this instant! Sandy.
As if I wasn't in enough trouble. The gelt was presumably the retainer Consul Sommon had mentioned. And Sandy was confirmed as heavily involved, because he never paid even legitimate debts.
That was my last peaceful evening before the deaths. None of it really was my fault.
20
THAT NIGHT I slept badly. Actually I'm not big on sleep. I think sleep's a trick. God made night so we'd wear ourselves out worrying, then gave us days to be exhausted in.
My mind was in turmoil. I felt something frightening coming.
In all this was Mortimer. I had to protect him at all costs, never mind why. The lad was an innocent, hardly out of the egg. He didn't know that inexplicables ruled in antiques.
It was the antiques trade's fault.
Antiques is an army of scroungers hunting for dross. In short, antiques is chaos in search of a wardrobe. See, I've no illusions. At the upper end, however, stands the antiques raj, that eclectic club of hoods who control everything. If the International Court of Justice grouses about looted heritage, you can bet that justice will fade before the ink is dry. And why? Simply because the antiques raj will make sure that art and antiques don't move out of their hands. The corollary is this: what you see in museums, galleries, or famed auction rooms is merely the residue that the members of the raj can't be bothered with and allows to remain untouched. For a fee, of course.
The money Unis passed me in the Welcome Sailor was a fortune. I stared at the notes.
I could eat for years, get some shoes without holes in, socks, fit myself out in Willie Griffs. And a hat! I'd always wanted a hat, look like a gent. Gloves I tend to lose, but with so much gelt what's a lost glove?
Sandy, I knew, had society connections, the sort that only fashionably weird individuals have these days. He sold them antiques. Many were ultra rich. In fact, there'd often been rumours that Sandy was a raj bloke, but I didn't believe it. They're unseen, and Sandy thrived on attention.
There was no doubt, though. I was now firmly yoked to somebody's plough.
Everywhere I went, dealers were working for Susanne Eggers. Directly or indirectly.
Like Ferd, with auctioneers arriving in posh motors itching to do deals. And his missus Norma, warning me off now that she was in ladyland – riff-raff lovers need no longer apply, so get thee gone, ye varlet. Never mind that I'd been Ferd's only pal while he was mental, and kept Norma in groceries and emotion. And Olive Makins, secretary of the local auctioneers, was used – forgive the word – by Mr Eggers et al. to sweet-talk auction lists out of her.
Also, the matter of my forged portraits. Not long since it was hard to give them. Now they were in demand. They were clear fakes, yet dealers were scouring the kingdom for them. Worse, Mortimer had begun lobbing the stone of honesty into the tranquil pond of fraud, threatening me.
So here was me, sitting on my let-down divan in my cold, bare-flagged cottage with a bundle of bunce like I'd never seen. Handed through some pub's back door by a street wino. I was retained by some American consul geezer. Foolishly, I'd blundered off to ask Cromwell, because he was the only ex-diplomat I knew. My logic always finishes up bizarre. Just as it had, in fact, when I went to see Quaker and Maud. I'd thought I was boxing clever, but finished up being talked into a risky tryst with Maud, learning nothing from Quaker, then stupidly agreeing to meet Brigadier Hedge. Only dedicated duds like Hesk, the would-be faker of Georgian art, were left out.
There was a huge scam on. The public would suffer, of course. They always do.
Whatever genuine antiques they possessed would be collared, fiddled, stolen, and they'd end up with barely a
