'Who?' I tried to be casual, but gave in. 'Fine, last I saw.'
'Good. And little Henry? It is Henry and Eleanor who you're so fond of?'
'Fine, ta.'
'Good, Lovejoy. Pleased to hear it. No, Maud, I'll not have a drink.' She hadn't offered him one. He patted his belly. 'I've to watch the weight. No Schumacher octane tricks on us Morgan drivers!' And out he whirred, waving.
'Cheers, Quake,' I called after him, wondering what that was all about.
Brig switched the TV off. Still looking for somewhere to put my glass down, I noticed something odd. The Victorian fede ring had vanished. I almost gaped but had the sense to simply tell Maud ta and pass her the drink like I was surfeited.
'Tell me about Mrs Giverill, Lovejoy. You asked her to stay?'
'Actually at a neighbour's, except during the day.' The lie got me out of it. 'She's still poorly from the crash, goes to out-patients.'
'Poor thing,' Maud said with that mix of sympathy and satisfaction that speaks volumes, while I wondered if I was the only one who'd not solved the Case of the Vanishing Ring.
Quaker hadn't been near it. I hadn't touched it. Maud was on the wrong side. The brigadier hadn't got out of his chair. Therefore ... My mind found a fraction of explanation with relief, for who was the swiftest, slinkiest arch-thief in the kingdom?
Who moreover was small and stealthy, and might creep in unnoticed on all four paws?
No wonder Brig knew all about the antiques Alicia Domander had stashed for me at Eleanor's. Therefore Alicia and Peshy were here. And Brig and Alicia were Just Good Friends.
'What time tomorrow?'
Maud coloured slightly, deception now. 'It starts at seven-thirty, so just before that?'
'Right.' I watched her go.
'We'll have time for a gin and tonic first, Lovejoy,' Brig said.
'Maud might like to go somewhere else.' Me, testing the water.
Brig appraised me. 'Lovejoy. Your special talent is a matter of survival.'
'Whose?' The disappearing ring hadn't come back.
'Mine.' He spoke with the weight of years.
'I can't believe that.' I was shot by his glance. 'Not like you say it.'
'You think I'm immune?'
'No. But look at what I do.' I shrugged, made sure Maud hadn't reappeared, Quaker not lurking. 'Antiques is a grubby trade. Rooting through people's cast-offs. Rust and dust, to earn a crust.' I told him about Marjorie, queen of the rubbish dumps. 'She's our only grubber with style. I have no style at all. I scrape along by cadging. You said so yourself.'
'That's because you're stupid, Lovejoy.'
'Eh?' I said, narked. Even shame has its pride. Except the trouble with shame is that it's indivisible. It has no components, doesn't arrive in bits. And it has only one speed, flat out and total. Shame overwhelms you.
He leaned forward, eyes piercing. 'You could be a multi-billionaire. Why? Because you can divvy a single genuine antique among scores of lookalikes.'
He kept his voice down. A bloke like him, military background, would be aware of any bugging devices.
'It's not as easy as that.'
'You mean you're weak, Lovejoy. You give your divvy skill away to grope some bint. Or because you're sorry for a friend. Or to protect your by-blow Mortimer.' He stared me down. 'In my book that's utter stupidity. Well, those days are ended, Lovejoy. You are now subject to discipline.'
'Who says?'
'I do. Until further notice.' He added, not without a hint of regret, 'Everybody agrees.'
So I was enslaved for ever and ever? 'What if I refuse?'
'You will...' He searched for the right phrase, 'Be put down.'
Like a vet puts down sick cats? I gulped. He smiled, seeing cowardice.
'There is a positive side, Lovejoy. You will earn the undying gratitude of me and all my ilk.'
It didn't sound much. I'd got along pretty well without it so far. My expression must have shown because he leaned forward, keen to explain.
'Reluctance is all very well, Lovejoy.' He said it like my teachers used the phrase. When people say something's all very well they mean its opposite. 'You fail to understand the plight of my class.'
Here we go, I thought. His class? There's no such thing any longer. I used to know an old Polish soak who was mystified that one of our royal princes had failed some college examination. 'It could never happen anywhere else,' he said over and over in bafflement. I couldn't see why he was thunderstruck. 'Lazy little sod should have studied harder,' I'd told him in puzzlement. It was some time before it got through.
Other countries weigh breeding with advantage. Middle Eastern professors' sons get an extra twelve per cent free marks in exams. But here, that's all back in the Dark Ages except in romance stories. We've simply exchanged class for robber barons in council offices and government.
'There's no such thing any longer, Brig,' I said straight out. 'Class has been replaced by jacks-in-office with
