Every Last Cent

'Will she tell us straight away which of us gets the part?'

'Maybe she'll want everybody.' I tried to do one of Taylor's hearty beams, on the theory that optimistic lies are best.

'That'd be superb,' Larch said to Wilhelmina. She smiled at him. I realized he must have overheard my spiel about her priceless shahtoosh. I sighed inwardly. So near and yet so far.

'Lovejoy?' Taylor appeared at the door. 'Thank you for your services. Mrs Eggers will send word. You will each get expenses.'

One last beam, then slam. We looked at one another. I wondered if the deal was off, whatever it was. Maybe Susanne Eggers's mystery ghost had its own way of working. I led the way in silence to the road and we clambered aboard Jacko's lorry. Only because I was looking, I saw a shadowy figure in the shrubbery by the huge ornate gate. It raised a thumb and little finger, sign of the telephone. I just nodded.

We drove back to town while Jacko sang that high C thing from The Daughter of the Regiment. I hummed along but, unlike Jacko, in tune with the composer's intentions until Tina snapped at me to shut up. Jacko bawled atonally on. Well, it was his lorry.

Larch and Wilhelmina talked quietly. Tina then settled down, smiling inwardly at a good job done, the traitorous cow. Jules only once was careless enough to catch my eye and swiftly looked away. He too knew we'd been had, maybe guessed who by.

We alighted at the war memorial. I told Tina to give me a list of phone numbers where I could reach them. It was only then that I wondered how the hell could I phone Mortimer like he'd signalled, if the phone people had disconnected me. We split up, and that was the end of a perfect day until I was reminded of a death, the only one in recorded history that was not my fault.

14

THE WELCOME SAILOR was crowded. The dealers raised a derisory cheer when I entered, 'Watch your wallets / women / pints!' in various combinations, all that. I was surprised to see five auctioneers in, because they're like kestrels. You only see one at a time, unlike other birds of prey I could mention.

I went about trying to cadge a drink, not because I was thirsty but because it would legitimize my presence and I could see who else was in. Failing miserably, I went into the saloon bar where I found Jules losing to himself at dominoes.

'Ta for that, Lovejoy. Made me feel a lot better.'

'Give over. Seen Susanne Eggers before, have you?'

'Once,' he said. I showed surprise. 'She tried to buy out the Edgar Allen Poe bloke.

Remember that Prague business?'

I remembered all right. 'Your bit of coffin?'

'Before I went on holiday.' He meant gaol.

The Poe bloke is secretly famous. We all know that he's English, obsessed with the long-dead writer. Very like some sculptress I could mention who's emotionally involved with Leonardo da Vinci. It takes all sorts. The Poe bloke arranged a vast EAP Festival in Prague, of all places, and actually pulled it off. He assembled Poe's clothes, gear, books, etc, etc. Jules here reckoned he'd contributed a chunk of Poe's actual coffin. Most dealers claim this kind of thing, given half a listen.

'What did she have to do with it?'

'She tried to pinch his idea, see? It failed.' Jules put his arm round his glass as if to shield it, the mark of the soldier squaddie and the lag. 'I saw her the day she got her team together. One of them's a big Yank diplomat.'

'She had quite a mob, then?' Remember what I said about antique dealers flocking?

Think vultures, not budgies.

'Not really.' He was watching the tap-room door as if waiting for somebody. 'Ferd and Norma, the Countess, Sandy and Mel. Horse and FeelFree wanted in but got the sailor's elbow, nudge splash. Vestry was going to try but shuffled the coil.'

A strange group. My voice croaked twice before it got going. 'How come you wanted to audition, you having met her before and all?'

Nobody was within earshot. Two middle-aged lovebirds by the door were having one of those terrible whispered arguments, all thin lips and white knuckles. I didn't know them.

He smiled sadly. 'She's never seen me before. I was the Countess's next bloke after you, Lovejoy.' I went a bit red. The Countess has lovers like restaurants do servings. 'I was in her Antiques Emporiana.' In case I'd forgotten, he added helpfully, 'You turn off through Long Melford—'

'I know.' Who didn't?

'We were in her stockroom when they all came to decide the chop. Ferd and Norma, Mrs Eggers, Sandy, a bloke I'd never seen before.' He winced. 'The Countess shoved me behind a curtain. It covers the doorway into—'

'I know, I know.'

Chop is the division of the spoils. I was embarrassed, that curtain. Uneasily I wondered how many of the Countess's former lovers had hidden behind it while she sallied forth to awe customers.

'I heard about you wanted actors so I changed my name. That's it.'

So Susanne Eggers was a would-be international buyer. My pathetic brain felt it was clip-clopping after Derby runners. 'She must have money,' I bleated feebly, as if a Yank lady who could rent a country estate and assemble a team of antique dealers might possibly be destitute.

'She's loaded. The Countess was in raptures.'

'What happened?'

For it had changed. Instead of a respectable mob of well-off dealers, she'd finished up with a penniless dolt, namely Icky Tod, me. I felt risk closing in. Thank you, Mortimer.

He said scornfully, 'Vestry took the drop, didn't he? That's what happened, Lovejoy.'

My imbecilic mind went, trying to trick me with the obvious, hey? It was then that I realized I was simply putting things off. I'd known what to do for some time. It was time I got on.

'Ta, Jules.'

Now I knew that Susanne Eggers was dedicated to something long-term and multo vital. She was a trier and a stayer. All the clues were somewhere there. She wanted to assemble a task force, and failed. She'd tried to nick a successful international festival, and failed. So she was scraping the barrel, namely me, that well-known success story.

Desperate from hunger, I went to find my talented ex-friend Alanna, who now hated me because I once made smiles with her mother. Please hear me out, because it wasn't my fault. I postponed the burglary I was going to do for Bernicka. I'd just got time to reach the rubbish tip.

There stands Marjorie.

Law compels our rural councils to run a rubbish dump. It's called the Regional Council Recycling and Hygienic Refuse Disposal Central Facility. It only means a tip.

Among waste containers loaded with old clothes, tins, bottles, and stacks of sodden paper are vast heaps of smouldering ashes spread over a desolate landscape. There's a hut where workmen play cards and doze, a prefab office where the boss watches cricket on a TV nicked from the chutes, and that's it. Except for Marjorie, she of the biggest customized Aston Martin you ever did see. She is fiftyish. (Her age doesn't matter. I'm only trying to explain how things turned out.) She was, is, always there on weekdays, dressed to the nines. Fox fur (ugh), elegant high heels, lovely figure, a quite splendid hat and kid gloves, she stands and watches the macabre terrain. If the weather turns foul she sits in her motor listening to the radio. Usually she's merely there while folk drive in, ditch their rubbish and exit smiling. And Marjorie leaps into action.

Sometimes, folk throw out things that aren't quite crud. It's then that this serene, charming figure moves with the alacrity of a decathlete and scavenges like a terrier.

I've seen Marjorie actually fight – not merely squabble or rant; I mean fisticuffs and talons – over a broken side-table you wouldn't shake a stick at. It's ugly. Is there anything worse than a drunken woman, or two women brawling over detritus? I was fascinated by her when first we met. We both were trying for a leatherette case that looked hopeful. I was on my uppers from an episode of financial ruin, and had grown desperate. Challenged by this harridan, I made a chivalrous withdrawal. Marjorie turned on me such a lovely smile of triumph that I was quite dazzled. The dress pouch she won held a lovely articulated Regency fan with a perfectly preserved silk leaf painted with Parisian scenes, about 1778 give or take a yard. I fell head over heels for Marjorie on the spot, and wooed her with instant passion, of course hoping to nick the fan.