'Please, Lovejoy. Honest to God. I'll do anything. Think of the birds.'
'No go, Lanny.' Birds?
'Then it's suicide,' he said, broken.
'Eh?' I was startled. He really did look suddenly resolute, firm of purpose. Suicide, for birds? 'Look, mate ...'
'No, Lovejoy.' Steadfastly he faced the charging hordes of Omdurman. 'You don't understand. I'm a four hundred.'
'Four hundred what?'
'A member of the Four Hundred Club.' Quietly he explained.
He loved birds. I said so did I. Only, women, migrating wrens, what?
'No, Lovejoy. Flying birds.'
Only then did I notice that his walls were covered with photographs of our feathered friends. Hadn't even pictures of his family. A nutter.
'I'm what irresponsible people call a twitcher, Lovejoy.' He gave a you-rabble-don't-understand smile. 'Only those who record over four hundred different species are true birders.' A sad noble smile played around his lips, say goodbye to the old school, Carruthers. 'I was hoping to reach five hundred.'
'Different birds?'
God, that seemed easy. I'd seen thousands, millions. Maybe I'd been a champion birder for years and hadn't known. I sometimes have thirty birds at a time in my overgrown garden.
I'd heard of these twitchers, people who're daft on bird-watching. I knew one lady who
– you won't believe this –actually sold a Newcastle Light Baluster drinking glass, stipple engraved with a Dutch ship. It had four knops –bulges in the stem – and the Dutch engraver's initials were actually engraved on the pontil stub underneath the glass's foot.
Rare, genuine antique. And why did the loon sell it? To buy a camera, so she could skulk in our sea marshes and photo swallows wading in the mud. Is that lunatic, or what?
'No, Lovejoy. Different species. Any fool can see a thousand birds any day of the week.'
Which narked me even more, because my birds are high quality. I've got some that sit on my shoulder for cheese, and I'll bet he hadn't. To stop him leaping off his balcony, seeing he looked so adamant, I went helpful.
'Look, Lanny. I'll bring details of some rare birds. You'll have your five hundred sparrows before Friday.'
He rose, his expression a pale, aghast mask.
'Falsify? You scoundrel!' He gave me a tirade of passionate denunciation.
Well, I gaped. Can you get the logic? Here was the trusted scion of famous London auctions –I won't mention which because Sotheby's and Christie's insist on anonymity –
who'd ripped everybody off. Who now swoons because I suggest pretending that he's seen a robin. Do you believe some people?
He ranted on so much his missus came in. She left with the wife's resigned exasperation when she saw he was only on about his hobby.
The name for those accursed fraudsters who exaggerate the number of species that they falsely claim to have spotted? A stringer.
'There is no more odious wretch, Lovejoy. Detestable. Beneath contempt. Hanging's too good for them.'
Well, hardly. It was strange to see Lanny, with degrees all round the envelope, ready to face firing squads merely because his fellow twitchers might believe he'd spun a tale about some fledgling.
'It took me ten years, Lovejoy. I reached my four hundredth last Martinmas.' His eyes filled. 'The happiest day of my life. I was stuck two months on 399. I wanted to sell the wife's car last year to go to see a black-browed albatross, but she wouldn't give it up.'
'Selfish cow,' I joked, jollying him along.
He agreed, to my astonishment. 'Yes, she is. The Orkneys is a hell of a way.'
This was Lanny, famed auctioneer. To pay for my silence he gave me my expenses and saw that my next bid got preference three auction days running, until some of the lads began to mutter. I'd not seen him since. If anybody would know what big money was washing around, it would be Lanny. I decided it was time I renewed my interest in birdwatching. I might see something unexpected. You never know.
It was getting dark when I bowled up at Lanny Langley-Willes's house in Dragonsdale.
Cars filled the drive. I went round to the rear, and walked into a group of enthusiasts.
They all wore working overalls. Lanny's missus was serving roast something. The wine was out, Lanny the laughing host talking birds. Beyond, the acreage showed a miniature railway line, a small engine, a little carousel with fairy lights. Building a fairground?
'Here's Lovejoy!' he called, seeing me. 'Trust him to arrive at dinner break!'
I received nods and hellos. I accepted a glass of red wine that tasted of tannin. I praised it like you have to. Everybody was pleased at my judgement.
'We're excluding a 400 Club member, Lovejoy,' Lanny explained, his eyes warning me about divulging past secrets.
Vaguely I remembered that you got shot for reporting the wrong pigeons in Norfolk's Cley-next-the-Sea. 'Er, it's about that, Lanny.'
