Visitor: What a beautiful statuette!
Doorman: Foreigners admire it. It is old.
(Now, our little geezer thinks it's crud. But who is he to disagree?) Visitor (sighs): My father has always wanted one. Unfortunately he is ill.
Doorman: I wish him better, with God's help.
Visitor: If only I could show this to my sick father! I would pay x dollars / euros just to borrow it for a week.
A gremlin alights on the doorman's shoulder and whispers how wonderful it would be.
All that money! Who would know?
A week later, an unbelievably rare antique terracotta figure, such as this one from Nok in Nigeria, makes its appearance in London's showrooms and is sold for umpteen thousand. These figures, incidentally, look like nothing on earth. Mirthless, lips slightly agape, eyes triangular, necklaces of the same dulled earthenware. Yet one in pretty tatty condition will buy you a freehold townhouse.
This Quay Theatre piece was from Nok. I suppose I've made it sound really neff, but it's not. There's a plateau in Nigeria called Jos where these figures were made two thousand years ago. Collectors go mad for them, and pay fortunes. Why? Because they're the only real evidence that sophisticated sculptors were there that long ago.
Sombre, almost menacing, they're not the sort of art you'd want on your sideboard, but dealers will kill for them. African travellers bring them into London, Munich, Zurich. Our dealers say, 'Netting Hill for illicit tribals.' They're not wrong.
'Whose is this, love?' I managed to get out.
She was smiling. 'I haven't the faintest notion, Lovejoy. I know Dad used to have one, but his was even uglier.'
The brigadier? One swallow doesn't make a summer, yet if his syndicate could display a Nok head with such cavalier abandon, unguarded in a foyer, it was a message, and such a message. No wonder the Countess wanted to supplant them. It was a sign to the knowing – look, see what we can get hold of any day of the week.
'Coming,' I said. I wanted to stick with her now. Obediently we went to watch the most dreadful concert of all time.
When it started the awful music made me nod off. The audience thinned, I noticed, many choosing not to return after the tacky excitement of Sandy's arrival and my actors' phoney antiques thrills. The songs were dross.
My mind kept going over what the Countess said. I was to help her, instead of the syndicate. She'd control the import of antiques. It was all the same to me. One tyrant's very like another. The only difference was that I'd get passion as a bonus from the Countess, not Maud. Promises, promises.
Maud sat with me in our grand box, everything going her way.
Several times I caught her looking at me with a frankly misty gaze, edging towards passion. She held my hand, even brought my arm round her. We were safe from gossipy eyes. We had champagne, too. I didn't touch mine because it gives me belly-wark. I'm lucky to be too poor to buy it. To please Maud I pretended to sip.
The singers came and went, warbling, wavering, shrilly vibrato up and down scales nobody but a deranged composer could love. The audience slyly began to drift faster. It was pretty poor. The orchestra had been replaced by a dud pianist. While some old dear screeched out a Britten piece I found my mind trying to work out the cost. Why the heck pay good money – if there is such a thing – for this sham?
I'm not keen on gelt. No, honest. I really do believe we think too much about it. Once you've got enough for bread and cheese, money's not a lot of use unless you're up to something. Maud was on fire. Her eyes met mine, ablaze with fervour. Was I worth all that?
Worry must have shown in my face because she leaned close to whisper, 'Don't worry, Lovejoy. We were meant to be.'
Between songs, I could hear the faint babble of some gathering in the ante-room.
Possibly the orchestra and departing singers, leaving for their respective boozers. As the boring show ground on, though, the distant hubbub dwindled, until finally it too fell silent. The steam went out of our entertainers' performances. The audience drifted ever faster.
Sandy must have persuaded Brig's syndicate to stump up the money. It must have cost.
The great swan barge, the dancers, slaves and slavettes, torch bearers, the fireworks.
Not to mention the professional orchestra to start the proceedings. And decorations cost a pretty penny. I badly wanted to see Quaker. He'd tell me. If it was the brigadier's syndicate, the problem would be that much less.
'Where's Quaker, love?' I whispered.
Maud had her hand on my leg. 'He won't be coming.'
Who'd passed her that message?
A tenor was singing. I recognized him as a cricket umpire. Were we down to this, a musical of neffie warblers? No wonder people were vanishing in droves.
'And your dad?'
'Shhh.'
One newcomer crept in with that slow apology the body naturally makes when interrupting someone's performance. Florence Giverill, looking tired.
The show finally trailed to an end. By then only a scattered few were left. The applause was desultory. Some geezer came on to say ta and how marvellous. The curtain swished to with relief. The place seemed so hot. I wanted to wave to Florence but she was in the stalls below and didn't look up.
We went into the corridor. I kept looking about. No familiar faces now, just Maud's bright visage excited beyond what the evening deserved. It had been a mediocre show.
She looked almost feverish.
'Let's have a drink on the balcony, Lovejoy.'
'Have we got time?' The place was closing fast. 'What about your meeting?'
She didn't hesitate, 'You're always so particular.'
The bar, usually so crowded, was almost deserted, just one barman washing glasses and tidying up. A couple had obviously sat out the last half-hour. They left as we entered. Maud put a note on the counter. I got the drinks and followed her out onto the balcony and stood beside her in the night air.
This was where Sandy's soaring staircase had risen from the swan barge on the river below. I looked over. All gone now. Fairy lights still adorned the riverbanks, but the fireworks had ended and the crowd dispersed. A last pair of snoggers glided below the bridge. Lucky bloke. I realized that I'd thought that thought about a lot of people tonight. Lucky others, not me.
'Isn't it blissful, Lovejoy?'
'Constable painted this stretch. He liked it.'
'And Gainsborough.'
Well, Gainsborough would, randy git. Hardly a blade of grass hadn't carried Tom G and his various birds at some time along his riverside. I didn't say this because the truth maddens women.
'When's the meeting?' I asked, to get things clear.
She leaned against the balcony, appraising me. The lights went out on the floor below, darkening the river. Probably last of the singers and ushers going home.
'Why are you so concerned about the meeting, Lovejoy?'
'The brigadier'll be narked if I make you late. And Quaker.'
'What's the difference? You can't come to it.' She sounded mischievous, like she was setting me up for the laughter of others. I looked about. Nothing. Coloured lights downriver doused with appalling swiftness, leaving their imprint in my eye. The point was, I wanted to see who would be there. It was the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle.
Whoever killed Vestry, drove Bernicka to suicide, and killed Timothy Giverill, was in the brigadier's syndicate. They were all responsible. Maybe it had been real democracy, let's take a vote, who's for executing Vestry, Bernicka, Timothy Giverill, show of hands?
There's no telling when money rules.
I felt sudden pity for Bernicka, always worrying that her fifty-four years would show, crow's feet, her crazed love for Leonardo da Vinci, then dying like that. It simply wasn't fair.
'Can I lock up?' The barman came to the balcony doors and started setting catches.