'Bexon,' I began. 'Old bloke, died. Some stuff got into Gimbert's auction last week.'
'What was it?'
'I don't know.'
'Hang on.'
He slurped from his cup to fuel up for cerebral activity. His eyes hazed. I swear his brain becomes audible. He took a deep drag of carcinogens. Blast off.
'Bexon. An old geezer? Great Hawkham?' he remembered finally. I nodded. 'Only rubbish.'
'No paintings?'
'None. Rough old furniture, ordinary modern junk. Couple of carpets.'
'Find out about Bexon, Tinker.' My heart was in my boots.
'Is it urgent, Lovejoy?'
'You just don't know.' I gave him one of my stares and he nodded. It's his job to be concerned about whatever I'm concerned about. It's more than his job - it's his life.
Barkers are scouts for antique dealers, the foragers, the pilot fishes questing ahead of the predatory shark… er, sorry, that last analogy's unfortunate. Skirmishers, perhaps.
'And try for an antique embroidery frame, Tinker.' A few quid from Lennie wouldn't come amiss.
'Very hard, Lovejoy.'
'Nothing from the robbery up for sale?' I asked helplessly, really scraping the barrel.
Yobbos had hit our Castle museum a couple of weeks before, nicked some ancient British-Roman gold coins and used most of them in slot machines for cigarettes. This is akin to using a Kakeimon bowl for afters or clicking a La Chaumette flintlock from curiosity. The intellects our local lads have. Hopeless. If you stood them outside St.
Paul's Cathedral they'd see nothing but a big stone bubble. I'm not being cruel. Most can't tell a gold-mounted glass Vachette snuffbox from a box of aspirins. I mean it. The only gold-and-glass snuffbox ever discovered in our town made by that brilliant Napoleonic goldsmith was being used for aspirins at some old dear's bedside. Two years ago a marine barometer made with delicacy and love by Andre-Charles Boule of Louis XIV fame was cheerfully nailed in place to span a gap in a shelf in a local farm cottage.
You just have no idea. East Anglia drives you mad sometimes. It's paradise to a good, honest dealer like me, but I thank heavens da Vinci wasn't local. His silly old scribbles would have been used for wallpaper in a flash.
'No.'
'Any news of the coins?' He shook his head.
About three of the tiny - but oh, so precious - gold coins were still missing, according to the papers. Of course, I was only interested because I wanted to see them returned to their rightful community ownership in the museum for future generations to enjoy.
Nothing was further from my mind than hoping they'd turn up by chance so a poor vigilant dealer like me could snaffle them and gloat over those delicious precious ancient gold discs positively glinting with… er, sorry. I get carried away.
'Hang on, Lovejoy.'
I paused in the act of rising to go. Tinker was quite literally steaming. The pong was indescribable, stale beer and no washing, but he's the best barker in the business. I respect his legwork if nothing else. And he stays loyal, even with things this bad. I let him fester a moment more, looking about.
Helen was in, a surprise. She should have been viewing for tomorrow's auction this late in the day. One of our careful dealers, Helen is, tall, reserved, hooked on fairings, oriental art and African ethnology. I'd been a friend of Helen's when she arrived four years before, without ever having felt close to her - mentally, that is. Self-made and self preserved. She usually eats yoghurts and crusts in her sterile home near our ruined abbey, St John's. Odd to see her in Woody's grime.
'Slumming?' I called over cheerily to pass the time. She turned cool blue eyes on me, breathing cigarette smoke with effect like they can.
'Yes,' she said evenly and went back to stirring coffee amid a chorus of chuckles.
Lovejoy silenced.
'Lovejoy ' Tinker Dill was back from outer space. 'What sort of stuff did you want from Bexon?'
'Paintings.'
He thought and his face cleared.
'Dandy Jack.'
'He picked up something of Bexon's?' I kept my voice down. Friends may be friends, but dealers are listeners.
'Yeh. A little drawing and some dross.'
'Where is he?' Dandy's shop was across the main street.
'On a pick-up.'
Just my luck. Dandy was given to these sudden magpie jaunts around the country. He always returned loaded with crud, but occasionally fetched the odd desirable home.
'Back tomorrow,' Tinker added.
'On to something, Lovejoy?' Beck's voice, next table. Beck's a florrid flabby predator from Cornwall. We call his sort of dealers trawlies, perhaps after trawler-fishing. They go wherever tourists flock, usually one step ahead of the main drove. You make your precarious living as a trawlie by guessing the tourists' mood. For example, if you can guess that this year's east coast visitors will go berserk over pottery souvenirs, plastic gnomes or fancy hats you can make a fortune. If you guess wrong you don't. A rough game. Beck fancies himself as an antiques trawlie. I don't like him, mainly because he doesn't care what he handles - or how. He always seems to be sneering. A criminal in search of a crime. We've had a few brushes in the past.
'Is that you, Beck, old pal?' I asked delightedly into the fumes of Woody's frying cholesterol.
'Who's Bexon?' he growled across at us.
'Naughty old eavesdropping Big-Ears,' I said playfully. Not that I was feeling particularly chirpy, but happiness gets his sort down.
'Chop the deal with me, Lovejoy?' To chop is to share. There's nothing more offensive than a trawlie trying to wheedle.
'Perhaps on another occasion,' I declined politely. I could see he was getting mad. The dealers around us were beginning to take an interest in our light social banter. You know the way friends do.
'Make it soon,' he said. 'I hear you're bust.'
'Tell the Chancellor,' I got back. 'Maybe he'll cut my tax.'
'Put that in your begging-bowl.' He flicked a penny on to our table as he rose to go.
There was general hilarity at my expense.
'Thanks, Beck.' I put it in my jacket pocket. 'You can give me the rest later.' A few laughs on my side.
We all watched him go. Local dealers don't care for trawlies. They tend to arrive in a
'circus', as we call it, a small group viciously bent on rapid and extortionate profit.
They're galling enough to make you mix metaphors. Take my tip: never buy antiques from a travelling dealer. And if there are two or more dealers on the hoof together, then especially don't.
'Watch Beck, Lovejoy,' Tinker warned in an undertone. 'A right lad. His circus'll be around all month.'
'Find me Dandy Jack, Tinker.'
'Right.' He wheezed stale beer fumes at me.
I rose, giddy. A few other dealers emitted the odd parting jeer. I waved to my public and slid out. I was well into the Arcade before I realized I'd forgotten to pay Lisa for my tea. Tut-tut. Still, you can't think of everything.
As I emerged, Janie signalled at me from near the post office, tapping her watch helplessly. Duty obviously called. I must have been longer than I thought. Through the traffic I signalled okay, I'd stay. I'd phone later. She signalled back not before seven. I signalled eight, then, I watched her go, and crossed back to the Arcade. Now I'd drawn a blank over Bexon, poverty weighed me down. I meant to go but you can't avoid just looking at antiques, can you? Especially not in the Arcade. Patrick yoo-hooed me over to his place before I'd gone a few windows. I forced my way across the stream of people. He always embarrasses me. Not because he's, well, odd, but because he shows off and everybody stares.