By afternoon I was worn out. Planning ahead always does this. I had a splitting headache, and the Bichon Frise –what a name for a species; sounds like a fried egg –
was getting on my nerves. Alicia Domander's good cheer and pride in her artistry was unfailing. I warmed to her. You can't help admiring a real pro. We really got going.
We did three antique shops in Ipswich and one auctioneer place. Then I said to cut across country to Norwich, while I dozed in the rear seat and Peshy sat upright grandly staring out of the windscreen from the front passenger seat. All he needed was goggles to be Biggies.
In Norwich Alicia knocked off a few items from those posh antique shops near Norwich Cathedral. She even got a painting out of the Black Horse Gallery in Wensum Street, and two small silvers at the adjacent place. All genuine, too, which goes to show that the real stuff isn't only in Sotheby's and Christie's. That thought worried me because it called something to mind, except I was too tired to remember exactly what. I shelved the moment and dozed.
That night we stayed on the outskirts of Norwich. I phoned Tinker in his Acle bar, got another definite negative to my Hugo question, and told him to go to Cambridge, see him in St John's Chapel at noon tomorrow.
'There's somebody come here asking if you're booked in, Lovejoy,' he gravelled out in an attempted whisper. 'Some bird. I said you were in Southwold. That all right?'
'Good, Tinker,' I told him. 'You did well. Keep going, okay?'
'Right. Tara, son.'
That night Alicia came into my room, leaving her midget mongrel asleep in her room.
We made smiles, me with relief and she with joy in her ample heart. It would have been a peaceful start to next morning, except there was an envelope under the door before the girl brought morning tea at seven o'clock.
There was a note:
Dear Lovejoy,
Please confirm soonest to me your next precise location. I regard your default on our contractual arrangements a serious breach of trust, and do hope this transgression is not repeated.
Yours sincerely,
Thomasina Quayle (Mrs)
Alicia stirred and groaned, looked at the bedside alarm clock.
'Christ Almighty, Lovejoy. It can't be day.'
'Up, love. Lots to do.'
She whimpered. 'Lovejoy, I didn't even know there was a seven o'clock in the morning.
I thought it only came in the evening.'
'Stop it, Alicia. Think of Peshy.'
'He'll be fine. He doesn't get up until nine even when he's working. And he doesn't really wake up properly until after his elevenses and his walk.'
So much for an early start. I went back to bed, burrowed in beside her. And that was that until nine. I didn't tell her about the warning note. We'd have to move faster, dog or no dog. How the hell had Thomasina Quayle traced me that fast?
25
THE FIFTH EVENING me and Alicia noshed in a tatty restaurant near Cambridge. It had to be neff, because Peshy had to come too. It swilled Earl Grey tea and steak, all in one bowl. I could tell that Alicia was working up to a question.
'Lovejoy.' She twiddled her earring, like they do when they're trying to get away with something. 'Will you answer a question?'
'No.'
'Pwetty please, diddumsy-widdumsy?'
I honestly think that pet people aren't right in the head. I told Alicia that. She answered cryptically, 'That from a tart-exploiting rough who chats to antique furniture, Lovejoy?'
Which I thought unfair, but that's women.
'What?'
'That cow Biddy, from Blue Barn Mansion, Suffolk.'
'Don't know the woman,' I lied.
'Come on, Lovejoy. Tell me.' She leaned over the table, candlelight into contours. 'When we drove past there the other day I suggested we pay a quick visit. It was open to the public. We could have lifted a few nice things. You got shirty and made me drive on.
Why?' She smiled, licking her lips. 'Was that scam you?'
'I was in clink when that was burgled,' I said, cold. 'How could I?'
She leaned further. The boggle-eyed waiter poured us wine practically into her cleavage. His hand shook.
'Okay, I'll tell you.' Otherwise she'd go on about it.
The story was simple enough.
Once, I stayed at a posh lady's house. County set, daddy in parliament. Biddy was dynamite, went skiing in those resorts where avalanches kill you. She seemed to own most of everywhere we went. When, scared, I stammered something about money to pay for the hotels and things, she hooted with laughter. She owned a string of shops.
They sold – wait for it – lipsticks and bras. Can you imagine making a living out of that?
Anyhow, Biddy had a dozen guests to dinner – which is your evening nosh to the rich, instead of midday grub like to us plebs. During it, she said out of the blue, 'Lovejoy, be a daaahling and bring some Barolo from the cellar. The best year. Gavain is busy.'
Gavain the butler. At the time I thought it a bit odd but obligingly went. Blue Barn Mansion was terribly grand, stuffed with antiques that the public paid to see. As I left I heard her giggle.
In the corridor I paused to look at a small oak side-table that stood against the wall.
Maybe I have a burglar's silent walk or something, dunno, but I have the hearing of a bat. This table was lovely, with typical non-circular pegs that stood proud of the surface, the way old ones really should. No drawers, but so what? Genuine seventeenth century.
I smiled my thanks to it in case it thought I was being cheeky mauling it like I had.
Suddenly I heard Biddy – nicknames are go, in the county set – say, 'Honestly, isn't he an utter boor?' to trills of laughter. I froze. Was he me?
'Honestly, Biddy, dwaaahling,' somebody drawled. 'I don't know why you pick these tramps up. Aren't we rough enough?'
More laughs.
'Did you see him when I asked him his opinion of the new champers?' Biddy tittered.
'He went red as fire! What an ignoramo!'
Yet more merry hoots as they fell about. In the cellar I seized the first bottle that came to hand. I took it up. Their faces were composed when I re-entered, but you can tell when everybody's laughing. I realized then that, coming to stay with Biddy at Blue Barn, I'd made a bigger fool of myself even than the Almighty, and he'd had a good go.
I'd been blind from wanting her so badly. I'd been on show, the clown everybody laughs at. I'm pathetic.
'Sorry, Biddy,' I said. 'I couldn't see in the gloaming. Is it right?'
'Absolutely, daaahling!' she crooned. 'Except we rayther expected Barolo to be red.'
Everybody hid smiles. Talk began of tomorrow's riding party. I'd already learned that I didn't know how to ride anything except a pushbike.
That night Biddy and me made the usual smiles. I rose silently in the early dawn and left before she or anyone else was awake. I felt ashamed.
A week later I drew detailed plans of her residence for Pogger, a Manchester burglar. I chose him because of his photographic memory. It took him an unbelievable eight minutes to scan the drawings, then I burned them. On an agreed day I got myself arrested by deliberately causing an affray in Gimbert's Auction Rooms. I was in clink awaiting trial when somebody – nobody knows who –burgled Biddy's famed Blue Barn Mansion. It was such a tragedy. Burglars stole the furniture, paintings, cutlery, silver, glassware, antique flintlocks, wall tapestries, even the carpets. One odd thing, though.
Standing all alone in the centre of the emptied dining room – the scene of Biddy's giggling dinner party – Pogger had left a charming gift for the lady of the house.
It was a bottle of expensive red Barofo wine.
Naturally, I was accused. It was very unfair because you see I was in pokey, unable to raise my bail. I waxed indignant behind my bars, saying it was obviously somebody trying to fit me up. See how wicked some people are? Always ready to believe the worst of folk. There's no honesty these days.