'Ah,' I said, quick as a flash, 'I was with both of them at that time. Spreading the genius around,' I added, smiling to show I was still modest deep down. 'Is Mr. Bexon a neighbour?' Poverty makes you very single-minded.
'He lived here in the village. So wonderful with children.' Oh dear, that past tense again.
'Was?' I managed to get out.
'He died a few weeks ago. Of course he was very old.' People annoy me saying that. Is death not supposed to count just because you're getting on? She put her arms around me and moved closer. 'It was fantastic with you, Lovejoy.'
'Yes, great,' I said, now thoroughly depressed. Another empty.
'I don't… you know, for every man who comes knocking.'
'No, love.' They always go through this.
'You're special.'
'Did he work with your husband?'
'With Peter? Yes, once. Engineering.'
I shrugged and gave in. We were just becoming active again when she said these precious words which ruined all chance of really closer acquaintance.
'I'm glad you liked the painting. If Peter hadn't called to collect it one weekend it would have gone with the rest of his things in the sale.'
'Sale?' I dragged my hands from her blouse and withdrew swiftly along the sofa fumbling for my shoes.
'Why, yes.'
'Where?' I broke into a sweat. 'Quick. Where?'
'In town. That auction place, Gimbert's. What's the matter, Lovejoy?'
'When?'
'Good gracious!' she exclaimed. 'You look as if you've seen a -'
'When?'
'Last week.' She couldn't miss the chance of criticizing another woman. 'There was some… bother. So I heard. His nieces had a terrible row. Nichole's quite nice but Kate -'
'Was there much stuff?' I snapped, but saw her pout and had to slow up. 'I have to ask, love, or I get in trouble,' I said, desperate. 'You do understand.'
'It's all right,' she said bravely. 'It was really quite pitiful. I happened to be, well, passing when the van arrived. It was so sad. He only had a few old things.'
It was so bloody sad all right. A few pitiful old things? Belonging to an old genius who could forge Restoration with such class? Moaning softly I was off the sofa like a selling-plater.
'Goodness!' I yelped over my shoulder. 'Look at the time!'
She trotted dolefully after me towards the door. 'Do you have to go? Will you come again, Lovejoy?' she said.
'Yes, yes! Thursday. Is a town bus due?' I babbled.
'Not for two hours. Better Monday,' she cried. 'Safer on Monday. Peter's golfing then.
Like today.'
'Right, Brenda. See you Monday.'
'I'm Mary,' she said, all hurt.
'Mary, then.' I could have sworn she'd said Brenda.
I was out of the street and running in a sweat through the village towards the main road. Women are born quibblers. Ever noticed that?
CHAPTER II
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NOTHING on the main road. Never a bus when you want one. We used to have Nathan's Fliers, three crackpot single deckers which ran fast and on time between the villages, operated by a corrupt old lecher called Nathan.
Then we were amalgamated with the nearby big towns, since which all buses have become either late or extinct. I stood there, cursing.
I tried thumbing a couple of cars but no luck. That's the trouble with East Anglia, too much countryside. Nothing but undulating countryside, mile after mile of rivers, lush fields and woods dotted with small villages. Merrie England. I sometimes feel as if Lovejoy Antiques, Inc. is the only outfit keeping this particular bit Merrie, especially after a week on the knocker. When I'm reduced to going on the sound (that's banging at doors and asking if people have anything old for sale, the surest sign of impending failure in the antique business), I stick to towns if I can. Countryside gives me the willies. Everything in it seems to eat everything else, preferably alive. It can get you down.
You'll have guessed I'm a real townie. As things get worse, though, you have to go further afield. Villages are best for antiques. They're antique themselves. So there I was in Great Hawkham, two villages from home. Stuck. Bexon's forgery the only good link I'd had for months and no chance of a lift. The situation called for desperate remedies.
The pub called.
I knew it a little, the Goat and Compasses, built in King Stephen's reign while his mob were scrapping with the volatile and exotic Empress Matilda. Paid for, I shouldn't wonder, in those ugly hammered silver coins of his - now so rare and prized it's no good even dreaming about them. I sprinted over. Maybe I'd get one in my change.
I entered briskly, hoping to create an impression of a dealer who had just come from doing a deal for everything the National Gallery wanted this year. A dozen or so people were de-stressing from the village's hectic social whirl, including Lennie. He's Victoriana, bygones, glass, crystalware and clueless. I swiftly borrowed a coin off him, partly because I had no change and partly because it's cheaper. I rushed through to the phone and dialled like a maniac.
'Hello?' I put my voice on. 'Is that Mrs. Markham's residence?'
'Yes. Who is it, please?'
'This is Doctor Chenies of the hospital,' I said, sounding really good. 'Could I speak to Mrs. Markham? It's urgent. About her friend, Mrs. Witherspoon.'
'Oh, right.' He sounded suspicious. People who don't trust people get me really mad.
Why is there no trust these days? Where has it all gone?
'Hello, Doctor?' Janie's voice, thank God. 'I'm afraid you must have the wrong -'
'It's me. Lovejoy.' I heard her stifle a laugh. 'Come and get me.'
'Is it really urgent, Doctor?' she said, doing her hesitant friend act. 'My husband has guests -'
'Stuff his guests,' I snarled. 'I'm stuck out in the bloody wilds here. The pub at Great Hawkham crossroads. I'm in a hurry.'
'Very well, Doctor. I'll try to come -'
'Be sharp.' I slammed the blower down. I honestly don't know what women think they're playing at sometimes. Full of wrong priorities.
I readjusted my face to a casual smile and strolled back to the saloon bar where Lennie waited. I told him about a wonderful deal I'd just made, buying a Georgian embroidery frame and an early Sheffie. He was all ears and plunged further into his natural gloom.
Not that there's such a thing as really very early Sheffield plate. The term's relative. It was only invented in the 1740s by Thomas Bolsover (please don't spell his name with a
'u' stuck in there - he hated it). Elkington finished off the boom in fused sheets of copper and silver by inventing electroplating in 1840.
My eyes wandered while Lennie grumbled on about some Caffieri cast bronzes he'd missed. Dottie Quant was on a barstool, straining half a mile of stylish leg to reach the ground and making sure we all noticed. She's ceramics and silver, in the local antiques arcade. Her legs bring in a lot of deals, they say. I believe it. I waved over, nodding affably, and got a sneer in return. That's better than my average. Distaste from Dottie's like a knighthood. She was talking to a fair-haired thickset man, maybe a stray golfer or a buyer? Her balding husband grovelled about trying to coax his noonday sneer from his alluring wife. A domestic rural scene.
I promised to sell Lennie my mythical embroidery frame. I offered to buy Lennie a drink, and escaped before he could draw breath and say yes please. I blew Dottie a noisy kiss to get her mad and left, my mind dazzled by old Bexon's wonderful faked painting which might mean so much.
What messes people get themselves in, I was thinking as I crossed the road. I stood waiting for Janie under the trees for coolth. There's Lennie, in his wealthy mother-in-law's clutches more ways than somewhat. And there's Dottie having to rub at least shoulders with the riff-raff, and her with carriage trade aspirations and a whining hubby.
Still, I'd my own problems. Where the hell could I find a late Georgian embroidery frame by Saturday? The problem was worsened by not having any money to buy, even if I found one.