"I don't believe you," she said candidly.
"You must."
"Why must I?"
"Because… because, that's all."
"Why, Lovejoy?"
"Look, Muriel." I rose and tipped earth with my shoe into the water, staring down. It seemed pretty deep. You could see a few pebbles, then a dark brown murkiness. "I don't know much about you, your family, who there is to give you a hand now… after your husband. But that mansion over there. These grounds. It's enough to bring every dealer and scrounger running from miles around."
"Are you trying to warn me?"
"Just listen." I tried to stop myself, but like a fool I talked on. "We dealers are pretty slick. Some are all right, but some are not. We're good and bad, mixed. There are grafters, crooks, conners, lifters, zangers, edgers, pullers, professional dummy-ers, clippers—every variety of bloke on the make. Some pretty boys, smart, handsome, looking wealthy. Cleverer than any artists, better than any actor. They'll pick your house clean any way they can and brag about it in the pub afterwards."
"Are you warning me, Lovejoy?" Womanlike she stuck to her question. I felt like shaking her.
"Never mind what I'm doing," I cried, exasperated. "Just be careful, that's all. Be suspicious and sharp, and don't let in everybody who comes knocking."
"I let you in, Lovejoy," she reminded, smiling.
I sat down and took her by the shoulders. "Can't you see the obvious?"
"What do you mean?"
I drew breath and tried to glare into her innocent eyes. "You're too damned trusting, Muriel. You should never have let. me in the other day. It's too risky. Look," I said, maddened by her smile. "Look. In that house, that great mansion you live in, your husband Eric lost his life."
"I don't need reminding."
"You do." I was almost shouting, not knowing why I was so worked up. "Has it not dawned on you?"
"What?"
"Who killed him?"
She paled instantly. I could see the skin over her cheeks tauten. "Why… why are you asking me?" she said.
"Because somebody must have," I said. "Do the police know who? No. Does anyone else know? No. And not only that. Does anyone know why he was killed? Do you? No. The police? No."
"They… they said it must have been an attempted robbery," she said faintly.
"So they think," I said. "But is that reasonable? What was stolen?"
"Why, nothing," she faltered.
"Not even one or two of your husband's antiques?"
"No. At least, I don't think so."
"Did the police think so?"
"Practically everything was there, according to Eric's lists. They weren't complete, of course. He never did keep very tidy records."
"Think," I urged. "Was nothing at all missing?"
"The only thing is that my brother-in-law said a pair of pistols were gone. The ones you asked about. The police did go over the inventory when all Eric's antiques went to Seddon's afterwards, though. George had rather an argument with them about it, I recall. He seemed to blame them for not being concerned enough."
"That doesn't alter the fact," I put in, "that you're in this house, rich and with plenty of valuable stuff about, I guess."
She nodded. "There's the—" God help me if she wasn't going to give me a rundown of her valuables.
I clamped my hands over my ears. "Don't," I begged. "For heaven's sake, you're doing what I told you not to. Keep quiet about your things. Chain everything down. Change the locks. Treble the burglar alarms. Quadruple the dogs."
"I'll be all right, Lovejoy," she said, smiling. She pulled down my hands and kissed me. "I think you're sweet."
"How can I be sweet when I'm a hard nut?" I said angrily, pulling away. "You don't realize how versatile dealers, collectors can be. We'll do anything—any thing—to get what we want. It may only be a couple of old matchboxes, but if we collect matchboxes we'll do anything to get them."
Her face was back in its previous solemn, worried expression. "But that can't be true."
"It is true."
"It can't be," she said doggedly.
"It is."
"But, Lovejoy," she said, almost pleading, "that's so unreasonable."
"Of course it's unreasonable. All collecting's unreasonable. But it's real." I shrugged and beckoned her to her feet. We strolled on. "You're not really taking notice of me, are you?"
I could see I had upset her.
"You aren't telling me all collectors are like that, are you?" she said, hesitating beside a white-flowered bush set between large rocks.
"I am."
"All?"
"All," I said firmly. "That's what makes a collector special. Unique. Your husband must have been like that too."
"Well, yes," she said, "but he was—"
"Eccentric?" the sardonic note struck.
She swung on me. "How did you know I used to—?" she blazed, looking momentarily more frightened than angry.
I kissed her lightly. "All wives call their husbands that, Muriel, love," I said, smiling.
"Oh."
"Beware of collectors," I warned again.
She glanced obliquely at me as we walked. "And what about you, Lovejoy?"
I gave her my frankest avaricious leer. "I'm the worst dealer there ever was, as far as you're concerned," I said hoarsely.
"I doubt that."
"The greediest, the cleverest, and the randiest," I admitted, thinking, What am I doing? "So don't trust me, especially me."
"I don't believe that, either," she said. "But I'll do as you say."
"Right," I said with finality, disengaging my arm. "That's it, then. Madam, before I rape you under this elm tree, show me the door."
"I like you, Lovejoy," she said.
"Don't push your luck, Muriel." I watched the heron stab and crook in a swallow again. "You've only been safe so far."
She tried to laugh again, but something had gone from the day. We waited for the next ripple to reach the steps, then set off back toward the house as the boat slowly began to tug at its mooring.
Seddon's, I was thinking. They sent his antiques to Seddon's for auction.
Chapter 8
Sheila said Dandy Jack had phoned but left no message, that Margaret had too but said not to bother.
"And a strange gentleman who seemed annoyed," she added.
"Pansy?"
"He had that… mannerism."
"Adrian."
"Will you call, please. And that's the lot." She made coffee better than I did, but only Yanks do it properly in my opinion. I drank it for appearance's sake. "What's she like?"
"Who?" On guard, Lovejoy.
Sheila curled on the divan. "Whoever it was you've been to see."
"Oh." A measure of truth was called for, I thought. Always dangerous stuff to handle. You know where you are with a good old fable, so much more adaptable.
"Pretty?"
"Yes. Her husband died in odd circumstances some time back."
"Was it a box gambit?"
"Sort of." I eyed her unkindly. "You're learning too much for your own good."
She blew a kiss. "I won't split." Dated slang, I noticed. Pity there's no market for it.
"Finish up," I told her. "We're going to the arcade, then Adrian's."
Instantly she was all about getting ready. Now, there's a difference for you. I knew a dealer in Manchester once who said that the only real difference between us and women was that they strike matches in an away direction, while men did it in a cupped hand toward themselves. But you can list a million things. Say to a chap, "Come on, I'll give you a lift. It's time to go," and he'll say, "Fine. Thanks," but not move for a while. A woman's immediately all bustle, hardly bothering to listen to the destination. Funny, that.
We pulled up near the arcade, doing the "Delivery" bit. I was proud of Sheila. She looked good enough to eat, as some of our local Romeos perceived. I went straight to Dandy Jack's. He was tilting a bottle.