"He's a very pleasant padre," she informed me, smiling. "A real enthusiastic collector. I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."
"I'll either call back or phone," I promised, and set about finding the Reverend Lagrange, collector.
Mrs. Ellison had given me the usual obscure directions which I translated by a vintage RAC roadmap. He lived about fifteen miles off the trunk road, say thirty miles. I patted my speedster and swung the handle. I'd be there in an hour and a half with luck.
The trouble was I'd not had any feminine companionship for a couple of days. It blunts any shrewdness you might possess. Your brain goes astray. It's no state to be in.
I drove toward the Reverend Lagrange's place thinking of Sheila as a possible source of urgent companionship. No grand mansion here, my cerebral cortex registered at the sight of the grubby little semidetached house with its apron-sized plot of grass set among sixty others on a dull estate. Such trees as people had planted stood sparse and young, two thin branches and hardly a leaf to bless themselves with. I parked on the newly made road where there was a slope, a hundred yards away, and walked back among the houses. A curtain twitched along the estate, which pleased me as a sign that women hadn't changed even here in this desolation. But where was the Reverend's church? Maybe he was still only an apprentice and hadn't got one. I knocked.
Ever run into a patch of mistakes? My expectations were beginning to ruin my basic optimism. Just as Muriel had turned out to be half the age I'd anticipated, here was this padre who I had supposed couldn't be more than twenty-two. He was middle-aged. Worse still—much more upsetting—I'd seen him before, walking up Muriel Field's drive as I had left. All this might not matter to you, but to an antique dealer, it's his life-blood. First approaches are everything. I suppressed my flash of annoyance and gave my I'm-innocent-but-keen grin.
"Reverend Lagrange?"
"Yes?" He was a calm and judging sort, in clerical black and dog collar, not too tidy.
"I hope I'm not intruding." The thought occurred that it might be a feast day or Lent or something. Worse, he might be fasting. I eyed him cautiously. He seemed well nourished.
"Not at all. Can I help?"
"Er, I only called on the off chance."
"Do come in." He stood aside and in one stride I was in his living room. There was a cheap rolltop desk and a scatter of Cooperative furniture. He had a one-bar electric fire for the chill winter evenings. My heart went out to him.
"It isn't anything to do with, er… the soul." I faltered. "I'm interested in antiques, Reverend. I was at a shop—"
His eyes lit up and he put his black Bible inside his desk, sliding the lid closed. "Do sit down, Mister… ?"
"Lovejoy."
"Splendid name," he said, smiling. I was beginning to quite like him. "The shop was—?" I told him and he raised his eyes heavenward.
"Ah, yes. I bought a pistol flash there, quite expensive it was," he said.
May heaven forgive you for that, I thought nastily. It was a steal. I would have asked five times what he paid.
"Er," I began, weighing out those grains of truth which gospel fables. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"
"Do you?" He seemed as careful as I was.
"You couldn't by any chance know the Fields?"
"Ah, yes." We unbent, full of reassuring noises. "My poor friend."
"I visited Mrs. Field. I thought I saw you arriving."
"And you're the gentleman in the long car. Of course. I thought I recognized you. Did you manage to get it seen to? I'm no mechanic myself, but I could tell from the noise and all that smoke—"
I wasn't taking that from any bloke. "You're a friend of Eric Field's?" I interrupted, peeved. My speedster might stutter a bit, but so did Caesar.
"An old friend." He went all pious like they do. "I try to visit Muriel—Mrs. Field, that is—as often as I can, to lend solace." He sighed. "It's been a very difficult time for her, seeking readjustments."
"I do appreciate that, Reverend," I said, considerably moved for a second or so.
It's pleasant being holy, but isn't it boring? Holy duty done with, I got down to business. "I know you'll think it a bit of a cheek, Reverend," I began apologetically, "but I'm trying to complete a set of accessories for a pistol I have, in a case."
"Oh." His eyes glinted. I was onto a real collector here, no mistake. "Any special variety?"
"Very expensive," I said with the famous Lovejoy mixture of pride and regret. "A pocket Adams revolver."
"Oh." His fire dampened. "Percussion."
"Yes, but almost mint." I let myself become eager. "There's one nipple replaced, and a trace of repair…"
His lip curled into an ill-concealed sneer. "Well, Mr. Love-joy," he said, still polite, "I'm afraid percussion's not my first choice."
"Flinters?" I breathed in admiration.
"It so happens…" He controlled himself and said carefully, "I am interested. If you ever do hear of any flintlocks, I would be most happy to come to some arrangement."
"They're pretty hard to find these days, Reverend," I told him sadly. "And the prices are going mad. Never seen anything like it."
"You're a dealer, Mr. Lovejoy?" he asked, as if he hadn't guessed.
"Yes, but only in a small way." He would check up with the shop lady as soon as I was gone. Always admit what's going to be found out anyway. "I'm mainly interested in porcelains."
I got another smile for that. "I'm glad we're not flintlock rivals."
"I only wish I had the money to compete," I confessed. "What I came about—"
"The flask?"
"If you still have it," I said, carefully measuring my words in case this all turned into a real sale, "I'd like to make you an offer."
To my surprise he hesitated. "They're fairly expensive," he said, working out private sums.
I groaned and nodded. "Don't I know it?"
"And you'll require a flask more appropriate to a percussion—"
"Oh, that's a detail," I interrupted casually. "It doesn't matter too much. Anything goes these days."
I sank out of sight in his estimation. As far as he was concerned, I would forever be a tenth-rate dealer of the cheapest, nastiest, and most destructive kind. Even so, he still hung on, hesitating about selling me his flask. It was only after a visible effort that he steeled himself to go no further and courteously refused. I tried pushing him, offering a good market price, though it hurt. By then he was resolved.
We said nothing more. I didn't enlighten him about my visit to Muriel Field's. He'd be on to her soon enough. But, I wondered, had Eric told him about the Judas pair?
I went down the new road. This little estate miles from anywhere probably hadn't an antique from one end to the other. On the other hand, there were a few shapely birds here and there, but the sense of desolation was very real. I would phone Sheila and ask her to come back to Lovejoy's waiting arms in time for me to meet her off the London train in the romantic dusk. As I trotted around the corner I planned a superb meal for the luscious lady who would bring a little—maybe much— happiness into my humdrum existence. I would get three of those pork pies in transparent wrapping, a packet of frozen peas and carrots mixed, one of those gravy sachets, and two custard pies for afters. Lovely. How could any woman resist that?
I leapt into my chronic old speedster and started it by releasing the handbrake to set it rolling on the slope, wondering as I did so if I had any candles to make my supper party a really romantic seduction scene. I didn't give the sad new dwellings another glance. Give me bird sanctuaries any time.
Chapter 7
I should own up about women.
It's a rough old world despite its odd flashes of sophistication. Women make it acceptable the same way antiques do. They bring pleasure and an element of wonderment, when oftener than not you'd only be thinking of the next struggle. There's nothing wrong in it all. It's just the way things are. Morality's no help. Keep cool, hang on to your common sense, and accept whatever's offered. Take what you can get from any woman that is willing to give it.