Florence and Eleanor got on well after that. I'd been worried, because me and Eleanor sometimes made smiles and I didn't want anything to go wrong. The loss of all my nicked antiques was a disaster. I couldn't blame Eleanor. I'd not warned her, and anyway, what could she have done?
Old gentleman, though?
An hour later, I walked Florence to the cottage then hurried round to the Treble Tile to give Tinker his orders. Time I got a move on. My trusty barker was badly sloshed, but had news.
'The brigadier's got our stuff, son.' He was at the stage of bleary somnolence, just able to sit upright.
'You sure?' Even for Tinker this was swift.
'Farm lads seed him when they knocked off.'
I ought to have had the sense to ask.
That afternoon I tried to reassure Florence by simply being there. We walked about my neglected garden, fed the birds. I looked at the portraits unseeingly. Late afternoon, we had an improvised meal that Florence concocted. Not bad, but not enough stodge. I'd have to train her up.
We walked to the churchyard to check on Timothy. It takes a whole year before you can place a headstone. The little brown wooden cross looked lost, just his name cut into the bare sticks. I nicked some flowers from Eleanor's garden for him. Florence was scandalized, but I said reasonably that Henry only ate them anyway so I was in fact doing Eleanor a favour.
We went home. She told me everything she'd overheard about Timothy's dealings. It nearly almost practically all fitted. Nothing new. I wasn't angry, not really. Tinker saying his piece at the graveside was really wrong. He'd no right. I've found that people assume you're narked when you're quite calm inside and mean no harm to anyone.
32
THE OFFICERS' CLUB stands in the military part of town. It's been the garrison area, believe it or not, since before the Romans landed two thousand years agone. The Garrison Church dominates local streets. Within a few minutes' walk you see the military hospital, barracks named after victorious carnage, shops offering discounts to soldiers. You even see the odd tank. And horses.
Now, I quite like horses, but aren't they great heaving things? Doctor Johnson said a horse was trouble at both ends and uncomfortable in the middle, at the time grumpily accepting a particularly expensive one as a present from his ladylove. All horses should live in a zoo, for children to feed, with fields where they could trot about if the mood took. Instead, there you are parked in a lay-by at Abbey Fields having a snog with somebody when she suddenly exclaims, 'Oooh, look! Isn't he lovely!' And trotting past the car's steamy window is a nag. Women go delirious over horses. If you see one when you're hungry for passion, you might as well drive her home and get back to antiques. Military nags belong to leftover cavalry. Somebody in the War Office still assumes that a dozen dragoons will rescue the nation should armoured divisions come clattering ashore.
Sitting on the stable windowsill, I watched Brigadier Hedge. He rode well, balanced stiffly forward like a pointer dog. He didn't bounce up and down like other riders.
'What's this, Lovejoy?' Sep asked. 'Joining up?'
He was watching me watching the riders.
'Nice things, horses,' I said idly. 'Just wondering if I should paint a Gainsborough forgery from this view.'
'You threatened murder at the Giverill burial. Tut tut. Haven't you heard there's laws against that?'
'There's laws against cruelty to people,' I said evenly. 'They don't work, either. Anyway, Tinker said it, not me. He was kaylied as usual.'
'A warning about Mrs Quayle,' he said casually. 'Steer clear of her, even if she is a friend of Sandy's. Let her chase red herrings like Ferdinand and Norma in their posh new antiques business. She'll never get anywhere.'
My mind went, eh? but I said nothing. Friend of Sandy's? The brigadier took two low hurdles, his mount's hooves thudding. Other riders cantered past the jumps, chicken.
'She's nowt to do with me.'
Sep was amused. 'The best her sort can hope for is to catch FeelFree and Horse pulling another antiques club scam. She'll never amount to much. You've to be a hard bloke like me to pull the crooks in.'
'Still macho, Sep? Surprised you're not here on your trusty steed.'
He snorted. 'Them lot? Chinless wonders. Ponces.'
He'd always been the same. I'd forgotten. In clink with him that time, I'd heard his endless grumbling about how unfair life was. Everybody else got promoted, while unspecified dark forces held him back. Life was treacherous. Sinister plots got him turned down for the fire brigade, of all things. He'd flunked entry to the officers'
academy at Sandhurst. Sep railed on until lads in adjoining cells had yelled at him to shut it.
'Mrs Quayle seems pretty sure of herself.' I was lost. I hadn't known she knew anything about Ferd and Norma, let alone FeelFree's antiques clubs.
'Her sort always do,' he said sourly. 'Silver-spoon bitch. Her daddy'll have shunted her into that job.'
What position did Mrs Thomasina Quayle hold, exactly? I wondered it suddenly.
'Maybe she hasn't come alone, Sep,' I said, innocently riling him.
'The frigging Aunties wouldn't run to that expense, Lovejoy,' Sep said, which made my heart sing.
Aunties is the nickname for the plod's meddlers in the antiques trade. They never do much, being too fragmented and uncoordinated. If Mrs Quayle wasn't one of their investigators, then she had to be from the Serious Fraud Office itself. Except the SFO
only ever send one hunter at a time, never two. Which left Petra Deighnson unexplained. I now had all the bits of the jigsaw, but some didn't fit.
'Look, Sep,' I said quietly as the brigadier turned his mount for home. 'You helped me when that Yank Eggers tried to haul me in. I appreciate it. If I can put anything your way, let me know, eh?'
He looked at me in surprise, because he'd done nothing that day except bully me. He'd have done worse if Taylor Eggers had insisted. I could practically hear Sep's churning neurones. He finally stopped trying to think and opted for opportunity.
'Yeah. I slogged to get you out of that scrape,' he said, convincing himself as ploddites do. 'You put something worthwhile my way, I'll see you right.'
'Right, Sep. I trust you.' Aye, as far as I could lob St Paul's.
He nodded and left, my comrade in arms. I saw his massive motor glide out of the riding fields, nudging aside smaller fry in the traffic. For a moment I wondered why the image disturbed me, but shelved the worry as Brigadier Hedge trotted up. The horse was breathing hard, possibly enjoying itself but maybe not. I once had this bird who rode in the Olympics. Horse mad, she raged at me for being unsporting when I said she should simply post her nag to Sydney, let it do its stuff there on its own. Riders are superfluous, as long as the nag knew how to climb onto the rostrum and hum the National Anthem. She gave me a day's abuse then left, taking her umpteen saddles, tackle, tons of linament and three cases full of jodhpurs. Deo gratias.
'Lovejoy, you're a month overdue.'
'I was away, Brig. Working.'
He was amused. Well, I would have been, if I'd just stolen all his antiques.
'Quite a collection you amassed,' he said, rolling in the aisles in a harf-harf sort of way.
'Would you like them back?'
I hadn't counted on this. 'What for?' I pondered my question, got it right second go.
'For what?'
He waited as jolly sporting types tottered by on their exhausted mounts.
'I made a suggestion, Lovejoy, remember? You and Maud. Become an item – isn't that the expression? I arranged a meeting that Friday. You defaulted. Having, ah, borrowed your antiques, I now have a means of insisting on your compliance. Don't feed him anything, there's a good chap.'