When you feel lost, antiques are the antidote. I went to Alfie's, a famed antiques place, and wandered among the stalls. I overheard dealers arguing about Chelsea porcelain.
They were on about Triangle Period pieces - the Chelsea mark was a simple triangle cut into the soft paste. Shine a strong light through the piece, you see tiny translucent spots we call 'pinholes', though they're not holes at all. Try it right now on any oldish porcelain you have in the house. You might get lucky.
Nervy as I was, I had to smile. One dealer was trying to tell the other it was a definite proof of 1745 to 1749 Chelsea. I hung about, listening. They were wrong, because modern fakers mix shredded glass into modern clay. Adjust the temperature, you can get a pretty good imitation. And you don't have to be an expert potter, because the first Chelsea wares which Nicholas Sprimont started when he sailed in from Flanders were really rotten efforts, dead clumsy. For four years, 1749 on, the mark was a raised anchor. The translucent pinholes became translucent patches, the famous 'Chelsea moons'. You can easily fake these—
'Coffee, Lovejoy?' Saintly said. 'Having a good day?'
'No. It's gruesome. Ta.' We sat at a table. When the plod offer you something, watch out. He actually forked out for biscuits, so he'd want blood.
'Who is your current lady these days? I haven't seen your apprentice lately - Lydia, is it?'
'Got none, and yes to Lydia.' I wished I'd walked out.
'Hear about that little bloke, did you?'
My hand didn't manage to lift the mug. 'What little bloke?'
'Trout, they call him.' He made great play of wanting more sugar. Cops are all overweight. 'Got himself arrested. Flew at Mr Gluck in a rage. Noticed any mental instability in Trout, have you?'
It was so innocent it was creepy. The ghost feeling came back.
'No. He's Tinker's pal, if you've got the right one.'
Saintly chuckled. 'Not many antique-dealing dwarf Tarzan-O-Grams around, Lovejoy.'
'Tinker there, was he?' I asked, casual.
'Tried to pull him off, but the little bloke was berserk. Mr Gluck stated Trout tried to stab him. Luckily Mr Gluck's cousin was in town, a bruiser. Trout rather suffered, I'm afraid.'
I swallowed. I'd warned Trout to steer clear of Gluck, stupid little sod. I didn't need this, with Gloria and Sir Jesson's set-up nosh taking place with Gluck across the road in Fortnum's, and my head spinning. Maybe Shar could spring him from clink? 'Where've you taken him?'
'Hospital, naturally.' He flashed a watch. 'They're operating.'
'Tinker too?' I croaked. No wonder Saintly had paid for coffee.
'St Thomas's Hospital,' Saintly called after me. 'You know it? On the Thames. There's a bus—'
Saintly and his bloody buses. One day somebody'd shove him under one. Now I wish I'd not thought that evil thought. Thinking's always trouble.
Hospitals scare me. It's a different world. Everybody except me seems to know where they're going. Everybody else also looks twice as fit. Doctors always glare like they're working out what illnesses I have. Nurses weigh me up, like what tubes do they have to pass and into what orifice. Not only that, I've only to walk down any hospital corridor to start to feel my right leg dragging, a rare lethal fever, double vision. And all the time those accusing stares from passing housemen, stethoscopes at the ready to diagnose my multiple fatal ailments. So I tend to shuffle along avoiding eye contact, hoping somebody will give me directions without amputating some vital bit. Hospitals are the pits.
Tinker was in a surgical ward. I found him by homing in on his cough. I halted, aghast.
One plastered leg was raised at an absurd angle up into a maze of pulleys. He was bandaged, forehead and one eye. An arm was plastered. He looked like he'd rolled under a war.
'Wotcher, Lovejoy,' he said. Thank God he was conscious.
'Gluck did it?'
'And a bruiser called Kenelley. Last night.'
'Why were you in Chelsea, Tinker?' I couldn't really get mad.
His one eye grew reproachful. 'We wus doing nuffink. I wouldn't have gone down Chelsea if you'd said not to. You know that.'
'Sorry, Tinker. I'm out of kilter.' I looked about the ward. God, it looked a killing field.
'Anything you want?'
'Fags. A bleedin' drink. Bloody nurses are stingy cows.'
The ward sister came clacking along. 'I heard that, Mr Dill. The surgeon says nothing by mouth for two more hours. And I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head…' et caring cetera.
'I'll send Lydia in.' I had to go. I was behind time. 'Saintly told me Trout went for Gluck with a knife.'
'It's balls, Lovejoy. They set out to do us over. I know the difference, wack. Here, why's Trout in a different ward?'
The sister must have had hearing like a bat.
'Your friend is still in theatre,' she said briskly. 'I'll let you know as soon as we get news.' She avoided my eyes, clipped off along the polished floor.
'I'll be back. Cheers, mate.'
'Tarra, son. Care, now. And watch the lad, eh?'
After this warning, I didn't need telling. It was Gluck's reminder, after I'd treated him with disdain last night in front of his girl and his expert with the goatee beard. Gluck would have to win now, whatever happened. But so would I. 35
THE THAMES LOOKED unchanged. I couldn't stop my hands trembling. I've no illusions.
We're a rotten species, do anything for gain. Like blam Tinker, a harmless old soak, just to threaten me. And hire some bruiser to wellnigh kill a titch like Trout.
The reason? I'd shown Gluck and his expert the true value of the antiques. Okay, they belonged to Wrinkle. Gluck didn't yet know that. But he wasn't thick. If I could stroll into a tatty workshop, show him genuine Chinese furniture worth a fortune, I could just as easily nick them. Gluck's warning spoke louder than words. The 'third person' Gluck threatened was Mortimer, or Lydia, or me. So one of us would have to be risked. As long as it wasn't me. I slipped down off the wall, still feeling sick, and walked to the South Bank. Ugliest theatres on earth.
Eat before a scrap, is the Royal Navy's dictum. The Duke of Wellington's advice was to pee whenever you could. I did both. Time to scrap.
'How did it go?' I asked Billia at the National Gallery, Trafalgar Square. I was astonished to see her. Why hadn't Dulwich's perfect security systems arrested her? Now I'd have to go through with the charade.
'It went well, Lovejoy.' She handed me a sheaf of notes. 'You got one name wrong. It was by Pinxit.'
A headache came on. 'Gent in a brown velvet frock coat, brilliant white satin undercoat?'
'That's it.'
'You ignorant cow. Thomas Hudson wrote Pinxit after his signature. It means painted it.
Latin.'
'Oh. You missed a Reynolds, Lovejoy. In the foyer. Margaret Morris.'
'That's a modern copy.' Now my headache was crippling me lopsided. 'The eyes are out of line, different sizes, like from two different women. Reynolds didn't make those mistakes. What's this?'
'You said do sketches of the exits and alarms.'
'Oh, aye. Great.' I'd forgotten. I scanned them looking as furtive as possible. 'Well done.' And they were remarkably good, a professional job. 'You could go into the suss business, love.'
'Thank you, Lovejoy.' She asked about money.
'Eh?' To buy off Bang's betting syndicate. 'Tomorrow morning,' I said with deep honesty. 'I mean that most sincerely.'
Her eyes filled. 'Thank you, sweetheart.' We were into emotion. 'I promise, Lovejoy, I'll do anything for you, when Dang's out of this scrape. And I do mean anything.'
My throat constricted. All me paid attention.
'The robbery's tonight. You and Dang walk up to the main entrance of Dulwich Picture Gallery.' I found it on the sketch, beautifully to scale. 'Just like it's still daylight. Dress like two workmen, overalls and that.' As long as they were conspicuous.
She was doubtful. 'Have we to hide?'