'I've heard of him,' I said, wondering what now.
She coaxed, 'I'll stand you supper.'
Supper with our poisoner? 'Er, ta, love. Some other time.'
It was then that Unis called me over and gave me a bulky envelope.
'A street busker brought it for you, Lovejoy. Feels like money.'
'Just some newspaper cuttings,' I said, wondering who was sending me messages at this time of night.
As soon as Peggy had returned to her bar stool I slipped a finger into the envelope and saw more money than I'd ever had in my life. I put it away, casual, but Peggy was watching.
When she went to the loo I ferreted out the message, shielding it from curious dealers.
It read, Dear Lovejoy, Come this instant! Sandy.
As if I wasn't in enough trouble. The gelt was presumably the retainer Consul Sommon had mentioned. And Sandy was confirmed as heavily involved, because he never paid even legitimate debts.
That was my last peaceful evening before the deaths. None of it really was my fault.
20
THAT NIGHT I slept badly. Actually I'm not big on sleep. I think sleep's a trick. God made night so we'd wear ourselves out worrying, then gave us days to be exhausted in.
My mind was in turmoil. I felt something frightening coming.
In all this was Mortimer. I had to protect him at all costs, never mind why. The lad was an innocent, hardly out of the egg. He didn't know that inexplicables ruled in antiques.
It was the antiques trade's fault.
Antiques is an army of scroungers hunting for dross. In short, antiques is chaos in search of a wardrobe. See, I've no illusions. At the upper end, however, stands the antiques raj, that eclectic club of hoods who control everything. If the International Court of Justice grouses about looted heritage, you can bet that justice will fade before the ink is dry. And why? Simply because the antiques raj will make sure that art and antiques don't move out of their hands. The corollary is this: what you see in museums, galleries, or famed auction rooms is merely the residue that the members of the raj can't be bothered with and allows to remain untouched. For a fee, of course.
The money Unis passed me in the Welcome Sailor was a fortune. I stared at the notes.
I could eat for years, get some shoes without holes in, socks, fit myself out in Willie Griffs. And a hat! I'd always wanted a hat, look like a gent. Gloves I tend to lose, but with so much gelt what's a lost glove?
Sandy, I knew, had society connections, the sort that only fashionably weird individuals have these days. He sold them antiques. Many were ultra rich. In fact, there'd often been rumours that Sandy was a raj bloke, but I didn't believe it. They're unseen, and Sandy thrived on attention.
There was no doubt, though. I was now firmly yoked to somebody's plough.
Everywhere I went, dealers were working for Susanne Eggers. Directly or indirectly.
Like Ferd, with auctioneers arriving in posh motors itching to do deals. And his missus Norma, warning me off now that she was in ladyland – riff-raff lovers need no longer apply, so get thee gone, ye varlet. Never mind that I'd been Ferd's only pal while he was mental, and kept Norma in groceries and emotion. And Olive Makins, secretary of the local auctioneers, was used – forgive the word – by Mr Eggers et al. to sweet-talk auction lists out of her.
Also, the matter of my forged portraits. Not long since it was hard to give them. Now they were in demand. They were clear fakes, yet dealers were scouring the kingdom for them. Worse, Mortimer had begun lobbing the stone of honesty into the tranquil pond of fraud, threatening me.
So here was me, sitting on my let-down divan in my cold, bare-flagged cottage with a bundle of bunce like I'd never seen. Handed through some pub's back door by a street wino. I was retained by some American consul geezer. Foolishly, I'd blundered off to ask Cromwell, because he was the only ex-diplomat I knew. My logic always finishes up bizarre. Just as it had, in fact, when I went to see Quaker and Maud. I'd thought I was boxing clever, but finished up being talked into a risky tryst with Maud, learning nothing from Quaker, then stupidly agreeing to meet Brigadier Hedge. Only dedicated duds like Hesk, the would-be faker of Georgian art, were left out.
There was a huge scam on. The public would suffer, of course. They always do.
Whatever genuine antiques they possessed would be collared, fiddled, stolen, and they'd end up with barely a farthing. I woke with a splitting headache, took half an aspirin because I hadn't any more, drank some water, and went to the village shop with my wealth.
At nine o'clock I made a hearty breakfast – cereal, eggs, those veggie sausages that give you heartburn, fried tomatoes, a stack of bread, tea. I diced some Lancashire cheese for the bluetits and the robin, and put an egg, cracked, by the cottage door for the hedgehog. Mother Nature, a scrounging harridan, could share my affluence.
'To labour, folk,' I told them, took a ton of the money, hid the rest and caught the bus.
Ginny and Ox were already out working the Liveridge estate when I arrived. I'd spent a mint on Visbee's taxi, guessing where they'd be this morning. Visbee reckons he has a brilliant sense of direction, but hasn't. He bets on a mobile phone while trying to chat up some housewife not his own. I spotted Ginny's motor near the livery stables and told Visbee to let them finish their con.
She's boss, so Ox can be ignored. Except, fraudsters need somebody who looks the part, don't they? Ginny is executive pretty and computer smart, twenty-five, smiles like an angel. Ox is thick, but tall, elegant, can make a cheap suit look Jermyn Street. He says nothing. Ginny rings your doorbell and stands there exuding charm. The con trick (soon to your door!) is this: Ginny smilingly offers you a free security check. She'll show you printed cards, credentials, has a security ID pinned to her ample bosom, and offers you letters from dignitaries. You, in all this charade, are the householder soon to be done out of every trinket, your furniture, porcelain, your savings books and credit cards.
Both Ox and Ginny carry gadgets. They're actually micro-camcorders that photograph your locks, windows, doors, and anything worth stealing. Needless to say, there is actually a real security firm should you check up – it's only her cousin Ditch, to whom she is very, very close. He has an electrical shop near Ipswich. The actual burglar is a violinist called Felly, works from darkest Hammersmith. He sells the stolen goods along the M18 motorway, like everybody else. I'm not in favour of Ginny's con trick, incidentally. But needs must when the devil's hard at it. I like to know what antiques they've stolen, keep abreast of what's safe.
'Wotcher, Ginny.' I flagged them down as they left the avenue.
She brightened. 'Hello, Lovejoy. So early, this bright dawn?'
'It's eleven o'clock, love. Where's Sandy?'
Her face clouded. 'Slumming, Lovejoy?'
'Desperate to unravel the plot, love.'
She examined my expression, let it go and alighted. 'Ox, drive to St Edmundsbury. We'll follow.'
'Which way is St Edmundsbury?' he asked, synapses clanging.
'Try the St Edmundsbury road,' she suggested.
And off he drove, we trundling behind in Visbee's motor. I asked her about Sandy. She could be trusted, for Sandy had done her down in a way I daren't repeat. It was foul, sinister, and marked Ginny's mind with permanent grief. Luckily, a woman never forgives. My sort of ally.
'If I tell you, Lovejoy, will it be bad for him?'
'Very bad.'
She smiled. 'Brilliant! Sandy's doing one of his morning showtimes. A hired audience and Eastern Hundreds TV, hoping to break in to Look Eastward.'
'Who's financing?'
She nodded at the pertinent question. 'You're right to ask, Lovejoy. That evil queen won't spend tuppence. Some American. You're bound to've heard of them.' She meant because of Saffron Fields and Mortimer.