Manton and I watched the lights swathe the hedgerows. Finally only the sound remained, faintly humming through the village. We heard him change up, sudden as ever, on the Bercolta road. Then he faded and we were left alone, sitting on the grass in the wretched flight.
The lights of Lexton were shining in the distance, an unpleasing orange. The sky picks up the illuminance and casts a faint tinge on the starglow. I talked to Manton, trying to make him feel that maybe the nightmare was over now and things were at least moving towards normal.
'It's my fault, Mantie,' I told him. No use trying to shelve the blame.
He'd normally have chirped there, but it's sensible to harbour your strength if you've had a bad shock, isn't it? You know how it is when you've been ill, how conversation takes it out of you. It's best to stay quiet.
'There's a sensible bird!' I praised, still in a whisper. 'Keep warm, Mantie.'
No good getting one place warm and moving to another, is it? That would be stupid.
They know what to do when they're off colour. Not like people. We're daft as brushes.
Animals are practical. They have an innate sense, haven't they?
I don't remember much of the rest. I remember feeling a cold wind springing up, but maybe that was just the effect of the blood loss. I saw blackish gobs and strings of blood on the ground, and all over my leg, and wondered how the hell that had happened. I fell over a few times, mercifully avoiding where Manton huddled. Janie came. I cursed her from habit, and told her to shut the light off.
I remember arguing with her and calling her a stupid obstinate bitch. She tried bringing an umbrella from the car to shield us from the driving rain which started up. Good old Algernon had telephoned her. It must have been some conversation.
About dawn I vaguely remember hearing a man's voice asking if this was the one, something like that, and Janie's defiance. I had to pee in situ, which can't have improved my appearances much. The blood on the mud was like those Victorian oil-layered flyleaf bindings. I told Janie to get his seed for him, as he was probably hungry.
I woke in the early light. The rain had ended. No wind. No noise. The robin was looking down at me. I came abruptly out of the nightmare. The robin flew, suddenly sticking like glue to the twig as they do in midflight. I made myself turn and look at Manton. He was crouched because he was impaled on a stake driven into the ground through his little back. Janie was there, a blanket over her dress and almost concealing her mink coat. Stiletto shoes and all. I remembered her husband's voice saying, 'And people in our position, Janie,' and asking, 'What are you thinking of?'
After a bit I told her to help me up. I leaned on her like a drunken matelot, quite unable to see much that wasn't swivelling round and round. She fetched a spade and I dug a hole, alternately yelping and fainting from the excruciating pain and bleeding all down the handle. I wouldn't let her do it. I buried them between the lovely Anne Cocker rose and a pink grandiflora. Then Janie got me stripped indoors and on the divan for a wash.
I was all filth and blood.
'You're in a worse state than China, Lovejoy,' Janie called from the alcove.
'Your slang's dated,' I gave back. 'Gives your age away.'
'The doctor will go mad.'
'Oh, him,' I said.
I wasn't up to repartee. For the first time in the entire business I was aware of the slightly disturbing fact that I was up against a madman. Nichole might be the sweetest woman on earth, but she sure as hell had no control over her tame lunatic.
It was beginning to look as if old Bexon's find was as precious as he'd thought it was.
CHAPTER XI
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ONCE UPON A TIME I was a virgin. No, honestly. A bit sweaty and newly hairy, but the real thing. You may remember how it was yourself. I exchanged it for a fob watch. A kindly lady pressed it on me (I mean the watch, folks, the watch) as I left her doorstep, fifteen years old but aged inexpressibly in an hour. She was thirty or so. I couldn't help wondering at the time how someone so obviously senile (over twenty whole years of age!) was still managing to get about without a wheelchair, let alone sprint into my big seduction scene with such breathtaking relish. It was a fascinating business and preoccupied me for several hours, after which time I went back for a further lesson. I soon learned her moans were not exactly grief.
Other points also obsessed me. Despite having endured years of teaching to the contrary, I realized that women might actually like males. And I was one of that category7. I began watching the sorts of things they did, to see what they really wanted as opposed to what they were supposed to want. I caught on. Women need to be used, to help. I was up against an arch villain in the form of Edward Rink. I needed help. I looked fondly at Janie as she pottered about, and began to think clearly. It was about time I did.
As Janie got us both ready for bed I watched her every movement. She knew it. They always know when something's on the boil.
Conviction came upon me like an avenging angel. Manton, Wilkinson and Dandy Jack couldn't do anything about Rink. I could. The police would be all puzzled questions and no help. Therefore Bexon's find had to be rediscovered. Not by Edward Rink, but by Lovejoy. That would put the boot into Rink like nothing else on earth. I needed help urgently, until I got my hands back. And I needed money.
'Janie?' I said as she came in beside me that night.
'Yes, love?'
'Look, Janie…'
Ever noticed how time goes sometimes? You might think it's all the same stuff, day in, day out. It's not. It really does vary. Some minutes leave centuries of wear on you.
Others don't age you a second. I'll bet you know the feeling.
That next week was a few aeons long. Janie got me the two latest Time editions. I usually read that when I can afford it because its punctuation cares. Incidentally, correct grammar's a must for antique manuscripted letters and diaries, some of today's soaring valuables. You can allow for spelling mistakes by the milliard, but grammar has to be impeccable. And grammar isn't just using semicolons. If you suspect the genuine old letter which your best friend offers you ('… actually signed by her! On real old-type paper!') could be a forgery, try this test: even if you have no special knowledge of vegetable inks, papers, literary styles or script characteristics, just sit a moment and bother to read it. No cheating, start to finish. Bad grammar or really neffie punctuation should make you think twice, modern education being what it is. This test has saved me more than once. Another tip's the length of sentences. I'm not telling you any more or I'll lose the thread.
Janie got me a recent biography - Queen Mary. I read it, not to see if they mentioned her fabulous collection of jade snuff bottles, but to see if it mentioned how she acquired it. It didn't. They never do, which really tickles me. Word is that round the British Museum an impending visit from the great lady acted like a tocsin warning of the Visigoths landing. She's rumoured to have admired any particular jade piece with such fixed (not to say immovable) admiration that, just to get off the hook, squirming administrators felt compelled to offer her the object. Graciously accepted, of course. I really admire her for that, a collector after my own heart. An example for us all to follow. Of course, it's taking advantage of one's position. But do you know anyone who doesn't? Even God does that.
Janie had the phone reconnected in one day, which must be a record.
'Did you resort to bribery?' I demanded suspiciously.
'They're above that sort of thing,' she replied airily, almost as if people ever are. She rang the news round I'd got 'flu. Our local quack came and did his nut. People phoned with mediocre deals, all out of my reach. Big Frank nearly infarcted because I was late getting his silvers back. Janie ran them over to the Arcade the first morning to leave them with Margaret.