I milled about near the back peering at odd bits of junk. The auctioneer, a florid glassy sort, was trying unsuccessfully to increase bids by "accidentally" jumping increments, a common trick you shouldn't let them get away with at a charity shout. Among this load of cynics he didn't stand a chance. Twice he was stopped and fetched back, miserably compelled to start again and once having to withdraw an item, to my amusement. Another trick they have is inventing a nonexistent bidder, nodding as if they've been signaled a bid, then looking keenly to where the genuine bidder's bravely soldiering away. Of course, they can only get away with it if the bidder's really involved, all worked up. Therefore in an auction keep calm, keep looking, keep listening, and above all keep as still as you can. You don't want anybody else knowing who's bidding, do you? If you can do it with a flick of an eyebrow, use just that. Don't worry, the chap on the podium'll see you. A single muscle twitch is like a flag day when money's involved. Where was I?
You've only to stay mum and patterns emerge in a crowd. The old firms were there—Jane, Adrian, Brad, Harry, and Dandy Jack—and some collectors I knew—the Reverend La-grange, the Mrs. Ellison from the antique shop where I'd bought the coin tokens while returning from the bird sanctuary, Dick Barton, among others.
A handful of traveling dealers had descended on lucky Mal-tan Lees. They smoked and talked noisily, moving about to disturb the general calm and occasionally calling across to each other, full of apparent good humor but in reality creating confusion. It's called "circusing," and is done to intimidate locals like us. They move from town to town, a happy band of brothers.
I watched a while. One of the traveling dealers paused near me.
" 'Ere," he growled. "Are you 'ere for the paintings or not?" I gave him my two-watt beam free of charge. "I said," he repeated ferociously, "are you 'ere for the paintings?"
"Piss off, comrade," I raised my smile a watt. He rocked back and stared in astonishment at me before he recovered.
"You what?"
"Where I come from," I informed him loudly, "you circus chaps'd starve."
"Clever dick."
He barged past me, tripping over my foot and ending up among assorted chairs. His pals silenced.
I laughed aloud, nodding genially in their direction, and stepped toward their fallen companion. "Sorry," I apologized, because my foot had accidentally alighted on his hand. He cursed and tried to rise, but my knee had accidentally jerked into his groin, so he stayed down politely. I get annoyed with people sometimes, but I think I'd been a bit worse lately. I bent down and whispered, "Me and my mates got done for manslaughter in Liverpool—twice—so go gently with us, wacker. We're fragile."
"No harm meant, mate," he said.
As I say, a lie works wonders. I stepped away, embarrassed because people were watching. The auctioneer had kept going to keep the peace, and some fortunate chap got his missus a wardrobe for a song. It's an ill wind.
I settled down near the bookcases and all went gaily on. I fancy the auctioneer was rather pleased with my little diversion. I saw Adrian applaud silently and Jane nod approval. I noticed Brian Watson after another twenty minutes and knew instantly who he was.
Some blokes have this chameleonlike ability, don't they? My mate in the army was typical of the sort. The rest of us had only to breathe in deep for all the grenades on earth to come hurtling our way, but Tom, a great Cheshire bloke the size of a tram, could walk on stilts for all the notice the enemy took of him. It was the same everywhere. I've even seen blokes come into pubs, stand next to Tom, and say, "Anybody seen Tom?"
Brian Watson was standing a few feet away, virtually unseen. He stood there watching, quiet, listening, and I knew instantly he was as fully aware of me as I was of him. A careful chap, the sort you had to be careful of. I instinctively felt his capabilities. A real collector. If he starved to death he'd still collect. You know the sort. No matter what setbacks come, they weather them and plow on. I honestly admire their resilience. It's a bit unnerving, if you ask me, too straightforward for my liking.
I bought a catalogue. Now Harry and the rest were quite explicable in terms of attendance at any auction, virtually no matter what was on offer. But Watson? Every piece he had was known to me, apart from some I only suspected, bought by concealed postal bid but quite in the Watson pattern. A buyer not a seller. He very rarely sold anything, and when he did it was only to buy bigger still. A cool resilient man. Moreover, one who was now observing me with his collector's antennae.
All of which, I thought as the auctioneer chattered on, raised one central question: If everybody else was here with good reason, what good reason did Brian Watson have? There was nothing to interest him. I scanned the remaining lots but failed to find the answer. He was a pure flint man, never deviating into the mundaner fields of prints, pottery, and portabilia, which to my dismay seemed all that was left. There was no choice but to wait and see.
It came to lot 239, the small collection of portabilia. Watson was in character, waiting with the skill of an old hand until the bidding showed signs of ending, then he nodded gently and off we went. We, because I was in too, all common sense to the winds. People gradually became aware of the contest. You could have heard a pin drop.
While the bidding rose I racked my brains, wondering what the hell could be in the portabilia that could be so vital to Watson. On and on we went, him against me. Everyone else dropped out. Portabilia are small instruments made especially for carrying about. They included in this instance a sovereign balance for testing gold coins, a common folding flintlock pistol by Lacy of Regency London's Royal Exchange, a tin box with a tiny candle, a collapsible pipe, a folding compass, a folding sundial, a diminutive snuff horn, and other minutiae. It wasn't bad, but you couldn't pay twice their value in open auction and keep sane. I saw Adrian hide his face in his hands as we forged inexorably on; and Jane, cool Jane, shook her head in my direction with a rueful smile. Many people crossed to the cabinet to see what they'd missed. Still we drove the price upward until my calculations caught up with me and I stopped abruptly, white-hot and practically blind from impotent rage at missing them.
"Going… going… gone. Watson. Now to lot two-forty," the pleased auctioneer intoned.
I went outside to wait for Watson and, partly, to avoid the others.
Jane followed me out. "Better now, Lovejoy?" She had style, this woman with the smile that meant all sorts of business.
"No."
"What's it all about?"
"I don't know what you mean."
We crossed the road and sat near the window in the cafe opposite the auction rooms. She ordered tea and faced me across the daffodils. "Aren't you making a fool of yourself?"
"No."
"You're like a child without its toffee apple." She irritated me with her bloody calm dispassionate air and I said so. "I heard about Sheila," she went on. "Do you think it's what she'd want you to be doing, going to pieces like this?"
"I'm not going to pieces." I wouldn't give in to this smarmy woman who couldn't mind her own business.
"You look like it, Lovejoy." She should have been a teacher. "We're all worried about you, everybody. Your business'll go downhill next. Look at you. You haven't shaved, you're… soiled-looking."
That really hurt, because I'm not like that. I looked away in a temper because she was right. "Somebody killed her—the same character who killed Eric Field."
Another of her famous appraisals came my way. "Are you serious?"
I gave her an appraisal back. "You know I am."
"By God, Lovejoy," she breathed, "what are you up to? You're not seriously thinking—"