'That's him!' he howled, swooning yet managing to hurl a chair and break a wall mirror.
Mel followed, pleading and weeping. 'Arrest that man!' Sandy shrieked. 'And that misshapen crone with him!' Which was a bit unfair. Shell's bonny.
'Sandy! Calm yourself!' was Mel's contribution.
Guessing what was coming, I left Shell to her repast. I got halfway out of the door before I was caught by two uniformed plod and dragged back to watch Sandy's storming conclusion. Mel was begging Sandy to remain cool, like he himself was a model of urbanity. I watched dispassionately, a little surprised that Sandy hadn't made more of an effort. Usually when he goes into a spectacular fit he hurls lotions across the thoroughfare. He acted his phoney epilepsy, though, always a winner. He got as far as dementia, but lost heart when he realized less than a dozen people were watching.
Tired out, I asked what I was collared for. The plod gave that mirthless smirk.
'You stole his antique portrait.'
'Me? But it's ...'
'What you saying?' asked this uniformed grammarian.
'Nothing, constable.' Well, what could I say? That Sandy's genuine antique portrait was a forgery, and I was the perpetrator? That I'd sold several?
They hauled me outside. As usual, bystanders lost interest. I was marched to Alicia's motor. They got my keys and lifted the lid. In it were two portraits of Lady Hypatia Parlayne, all my own work. For an instant I felt giddy, probably subnutrition.
'See?' Sandy shrieked, flinging himself to the cobblestones and writhing. He'd forgotten to foam at the mouth, I observed. 'It's there!'
'Thief!' Mel accused. 'Arrest him this instant!'
Now, if Mel had somehow slipped it into Alicia's motor after I'd gone in to see Shell, then whose was the other? Shell had one. Maybe, I hoped cautiously, one and one still equalled two? Except with my luck—
The ploddite intoned in sepulchral tones, 'Come along, lad.' I felt ailing. Things had gone wrong right from the day Mortimer had got me to Saffron Fields to meet that Susanne Eggers. A headache started.
'Wait.' The voice sounded so quiet and reasonable I couldn't see any reason to obey, but the plod stilled. I looked round.
Mrs Thomasina Quayle was standing on the pavement. Feet together, matching jacket and skirt, hat modest and lace gloves in a lovely pastel, she looked fresh from finishing school. I noticed two women giving her that cruel up-and-downer with which females hate somebody that little bit classier.
'Neither of those portraits is the one in question,' she said. The plod hesitated. Asking them to consider art was like making a marquee out of a thong.
Sandy, deprived of attention, made an instantaneous recovery and beckoned testily for minions to haul him upright. Mel obliged. Sandy strutted to face her, trailing his sheet.
His head was a frothy brush, his mascara spread by false tears. He was of course attired in Lurex pantaloons and a silver bolero. One of his magenta high heels had broken off. He stood facing Mrs Quayle, spitting venom. He had to look up, being small.
'What do we have here?' he cooed, smiling sleet. 'Who're you, bitch?'
'I am Lovejoy's legal representative.' She displayed a card to the plod, slipped it back into a handbag made from the skin of the last dying reptilian representative of its conserved species. Sandy might not have been there. 'Are you arresting my client? If so, state your legal grounds forthwith.'
'An accusation has been made, miss,' one tried, losing heart.
'Supported by anything other than hysteria? Yes, no?' She was an impatient schoolmarm. The plod's grip weakened.
'This gentleman has accused—'
'Am I correct in assuming you mean a negative? If legal action is being taken against my client, please make it through proper channels. And,' she said in a voice that out-wintered anyone else's, 'please control this individual and keep the Sovereign's peace.'
She took my arm and led me away to where Shell was watching in awe.
'Mel!' Sandy screamed, falling into another fit. 'That mare called me an individual. Arrest her! Constable! Mel, baby!'
'Good day,' this formidable lady said to Shell. 'I am Mrs Thomasina Quayle. Please inform me whether or not you are Lovejoy's friend, and if so in what capacity. If you are animose, please say.'
She waited obligingly. Shell glanced from her to me, and then said weakly, 'I was just trying to do Lovejoy a favour.'
'That's right,' I said. 'Shell's nice. She was going to give me back my painting.'
Mrs Quayle shut me up with a glance. 'Mrs Shell. Would you kindly accept my invitation to tea?'
Sandy, Mel and the plod were in retreat. I saw Mel slip the senior ploddite a note or two with a sleight- of-hand an honest man wouldn't have even noticed. Therefore my arrest might have been sham. God knows whether the coppers were genuine or not. I began to feel safe, maybe.
'Come to mine,' Shell said, gauging the newcomer. 'But let me leave first.'
My new ally agreed, and explained, 'How very wise! Mrs Shell means that we will not appear to be in collusion.' She added, 'Perhaps we should leave the market square by different exits, as further subterfuge?'
'Okay, love,' Shell said, giving me a look that asked if this bird was real or if somebody round the corner was working her with levers. 'Lovejoy knows the way.'
The boot of Alicia's motor locked on the two portraits, I drove out of St Edmundsbury heading north. There was no sign of Shell's motor.
