One worrying thing was Maud. Did she share Brig's dark intentions, that her husband Quaker should get the push and I take his place? She hadn't said anything. These mating games are always beyond me. Whatever happens between men and women is simply a fluke. Love, like family, is a lottery. I knew a bonny lady called Kitty, who married her bloke – a gambler and a thief – convinced she could reform him. Within a month she came a-weeping, asking me 'to set him up in antiques', like it was lending him a book. She went berserk when I said he wouldn't last a millisec. Later, he defaulted on his gambling debts, so the lads tailored him for a motorway robbery he hadn't done. He's currently doing a ten-year stretch. Mysteriously, his missus instantly flowered in his absence. Without a penny to her name, she has acquired a sports and leisure club in Brightlingsea. See? Luck.
Such thoughts warning me of possible mishaps, I smiled a glittering smile at my reflection, and went to meet Maud, the brigadier, Quaker, and any combination of others. I'd perhaps find out who his syndicate was. If Quaker kept out of the way, at least I'd maybe have Maud's company for a clandestine while. You never know. I caught the bus, shocked that my palms were damp. Shakily I dropped coins everywhere as I paid my fare, making passengers smile and raise who-is-this-oaf eyebrows. I said sorry, sorry, stared at the shadows among the countryside's trees.
It was frankly dusk when I walked through the park among the Quay Theatre crowd.
The rain had mercifully held off. The people were colourful – not as well turned out as me, I told myself jauntily. Mrs Thomasina Quayle was there in a smart evening dress contentedly chatting with Susanne Eggers and the mayor on the balcony. It overhung the water, illuminated with candles and flickering lamps. Copacetic, Consul Sommon would probably have said in American slang. He was there. I passed Taylor Eggers parking his motor. He waved. I waved back.
Music was playing. Coloured lights strung in the water. Boats glided under torches.
Romance was in the air. A bonfire flickered, making amber fronds of the riverbank trees. One pity was the aroma of hot-dog stalls. First whiff, superbly alluring. When you get close, the stink is charred flesh. Nauseous. Like some auctions and lovers' trysts, entrancing at a distance then frightening close to. Tonight, though, no omens allowed.
I'd get to the bottom of the whole thing.
'Evening, Lovejoy.'
'Hello, Olive.'
'Who's your lady for this gala evening?'
'You, if Lady Luck's kind.'
Very fetching, in slab Art Deco and a floral hat. 'Perhaps we can meet? I must see you.'
'Ta, love.'
And on I went, Burlington Bertie. I glimpsed her turning into the path of Taylor Eggers.
Why did she want to renew acquaintance with him, when he'd bribed her with those duff Light Brown Reject earrings? Or was she going for his ankles? Or had she simply forgotten? Except, what woman ever forgets how she was slighted, or who by?
'Well, well,' said the Serious Fraud Officer, Petra Deighnson. 'Do I espy Lovejoy?'
She wore cobalt blue. I never really like trouser suits. Women don't look quite as fetching as they're supposed, though some think severe-cut slacks the height of femininity.
'You plod, always asking my help. Yes, I'm me.'
'Know who the original Police Constable Plod was?' She fell in, taking my arm, amiability itself. 'They say he was PC Rone in Studland. Isn't it Dorsetshire? Enid Blyton called him that in her children's stories.'
'SFO research, eh?'
She slowed me, smiling. 'Staying for the syndicate meeting afterwards?'
'Er. . .'
'I was hoping you'll be doing the antiques, Lovejoy.'
She indicated the stands that had been erected over the water. Everybody was there.
Big Frank with his next spouse. Ferd and his Norma, both especially pally with the mayor. Peggy Price and Cromwell – he in full Puritan fig with tall white collar and sombre black – and, surprising me, Ginny without Ox her driver-helper, though he'd be sure to be among the thickening crowds.
Petra Deighnson whispered confidingly as the crowd ooohed at fireworks hitting the darkening sky, 'I've seen the antiques' bills of sale. All legit, Lovejoy. Repro or genuine, they're honest.'
For a second I thought I caught sight of Mortimer, but it must have been my imagination.
'Legit? Honest genuine repro? You've a right porridge of words, missus.'
Shaking her off I said so-long and pressed through the crowd.
There's a pool that once was a wide water catchment into which the river flows. On the highest part of the bankside stands the Quay Theatre. It was once a mill. Barges and pleasure boats go by in summer. It looks really bonny with lanterns, streamers, floating lights and tableaux at carnival times. I'd spoken on its stage about antiques, back when I was trustworthy. I don't get asked now. I noticed Tramway Adenath's huge van – the flower gardener who was going to stab me with a dibble just because I'd ruined his garden centre, undermined his life campaign to restore Nature in a poisoned world.
Selfish sod. He was carrying plants up the wooden staircase. His missus, the worldly Merry, was hauling greenery. Still together, then.
'He's coming! He's coming!' people exclaimed.
'No prizes for guessing who, Lovejoy,' Maud said, slipping her arm through mine. I was in vogue tonight. 'Sandy's refrain. Hear it?'
Through the gloam came the strains of Handel's Water Music. Cameras flashed leaving our retinas unusable. My vision cleared. A golden barge glided upstream, shaped like an enormous swan, with Sandy in flowing golden sheets in the prow. I felt really embarrassed. Even for him this was ridiculous. All around people were applauding.
'How wonderful! Look!' Maud pulled me so we could see this shambles better. 'Isn't Sandy brilliant?'
Shimmering sparklers made waterfalls on the surface. Lights rippled along the bulwarks, spotlights playing. Sandy stood in dramatic pose, his features set into an expression he probably thought regal. He looked a right prune. I said so. Maud was irritated and slapped at my arm.
'Don't be a spoilsport, Lovejoy! He's being Queen Midas!'
Queen Midas? Wasn't Midas the king of Phrygia? Who finished up wearing donkey's ears?
The golden swan was rowed by so-say slaves, except even among the crowd I could hear the electric motor that powered the barge. Nymphs in flowing robes hung gracefully in the rigging, showering the spectators with golden petals as the monstrosity floated to the Quay. The applause was deafening. Sandy would have loudspeakers supplementing the clapping. It would be just like him.
'What's it all in aid of?'
She gazed at me in amazement.
'The award, Lovejoy! The refunding of the town's syndicate!'
Unease took me. I tried to sound nonchalant. 'What syndicate?'
'Our town's investors, Lovejoy! It's been in all the papers!'
Her eyes shone with pure admiration. Not for me, for Sandy. But how could he fund anything? It must be a scam based on promises. That old one.
The great barge, with Sandy in his daft heroic pose above the colossal swan's beak, searchlights playing on him, serenely neared the theatre. People were running from across the car park, desperate not to miss the spectacle.
Slaves, skin oiled to shine in the lantern light, hauled on ropes. A line of chanting slavettes, flaming torches held aloft, approached to welcome the hero. All wore flowing silver dresses, their faces and arms painted silver, quite macabre. Jeremiah Clark's Trumpet Voluntary crashed out, deafening us as an extending staircase rose from the swan's neck. Sandy stepped onto the stairway, gesturing majestically to the crowds beneath. The music changed to HMS Pinafore. Sandy was carried, still in his silly stance, through the dark night air above us to the balcony. Some loons, doubtless paid by the indefatigable Mel, started up a chant, 'Sandy! Sandy!' The crowd took it up, drowning out the music.