'locusts' eaten by John the Baptist when he was doing his thing. Remarkably, they have hardly any variation in size or weight. For this reason the carob seed became our 'carat'
in measuring precious grades. They serve as a reminder, in case I feel any bidding madness come over me in auctions. 'Leave it, Tinker. I'll gather my own, once I'm on the road.'
Gloom took hold of him.
'I don't want you to leave town, son. What'll I do for a drop or two with you tarting around the Hundreds?' He looked piteous. 'I've got me bad chest back.'
'Excuse me, Lovejoy,' the lady called from behind her counter. 'Is the old gentleman not well? I could always make him a hot toddy, if you like.'
Tinker brightened instantly. 'Ta, lady. That's real—'
'No, thank you, love,' I said quickly. It could become an orgy in seconds. 'He'll be better in the fresh air.'
'Here, son. Nark it.' Tinker was outraged. I hauled him to his feet.
'You're coming too, Tinker.' I said so-long to the lady and got him outside, peering about like a cartoon cat to check the gardens were empty of foes. 'Here's a wadge. I'm heading east. Follow me on. Be there tomorrow noon.'
'East? But everybody says you're going to Stalham, Lovejoy.' He cheered up, feeling the bunce I'd given him.
Did the world know? Anyhow, I had to avoid that route now, or I'd get nabbed in a trice. 'No. East. I'll do Harwich first, them three antique shops near the Hook of Holland ferry. The nearest pub, dinner time, okay? Another thing. Find out who Hugo is.'
'Who the hell is—?'
Give me strength. I left him hawking up phlegm. I slid between the old post office and the theatre, and briskly walked the Roman wall to the railway station where I could get a taxi. It was all go. No sign of Thomasina Quayle. I vaguely knew that she'd said something important, but couldn't for the life of me get it straight. Luckily children were thronging from North Street School as I reached the river bridge, so I wasn't unduly worried about getting caught by my sundry creditors. I still had more money than I was used to. I could keep Alicia and her blinking Bichon Frise in luxury until we'd done the antiques sweep. Not enough money to burn, you understand. Just stealing enough to become temporarily rich.
On the bridge I bought a posy of those little blue flowers, the sort I like that grow wild in my garden. I dropped them into the river, watched them out of sight among the ducks. They were for Timothy. I'd settle the rest of the obligation later.
Then headed out.
24
IT WAS NEXT day. The antiques shop in Harwich was set back between a natty tailor's and a fishing place. I didn't know the proprietress, only that she wasn't the expert she thought she was. I'd seen her miss a small occasional table that would have kept her a year, maybe more, but she was too proud to kneel and check underneath.
'It was glass,' I told Alicia as we readied to do the first robbery. She would shoulder, I'd be safely elsewhere.
'A glass topped table?'
'No. The entire table. Osier of Birmingham made glass furniture, right down to the pedestal. Not a splinter of wood in sight. Some loon had painted it a hideous green, wanting it to look like wrought iron. I got it home and stripped the paint off.'
'Christ, that sounds ugly.'
Osier's glass furniture factory kept going from Trafalgar times, but failed in the 1920s.
Oddly, they sold best in Calcutta and Hong Kong, God knows why. Too little sun in England, and the perennial brightness in the Eastern Empire, might explain it. Victorian ladies loved them in their conservatories, where light could pick up the gleams. Folk chuck them out these days, thinking it's a neffie modern fashion. Wrong. It's a stylish art gone from us. If you see one, buy it. Collectors and fashioneers are starting to cotton on.
'Ann Fosstitch, as ever was.'
The woman entered the shop, her great saloon motor illegally parked. Soon after, another woman scurried away, and La Fosstitch appeared in the window arranging her wares.
'What do you want me to uncle, Lovejoy?'
Uncle to mean nick, from Uncle Dick, nick. Hence, steal. Alicia's Cockney rhyming slang shows through when she's keyed up. Peshy woke, yawned, and stretched, ready for action.
'Anything good. I can't decoy for you, so take care, love.'
She left, walking the dog on its string. It bounced along like a ball of fur. I'm told that breeders can change their shapes. If so, they've let the Almighty down. Peshy was a travesty. What on earth could a dog like that do? Hunting was out. Guarding somebody's castle was not on. Pulling some sledge was a ludicrous thought. I think people with fancy dogs are odd.
They vanished into the shop, Alicia carefully picking Peshy up and pausing in the entrance beforehand, presumably asking if the shopkeeper had any objections to a mongrel. A traffic warden knocked on the window. I opened it.
'Will you be parked here long, sir?'
'Only a minute,' I said, affecting boredom, though my heart was racing. 'My wife just wanted to do a bit of shopping in that tailor's.'
He smiled in sympathy. 'Then five minutes, sir.'
