"He had a real sense of fun," she was saying, smiling.
"I suppose it's a lot quieter now," I put in.
"Oh…" For some reason she was hesitant.
"I mean, fewer visitors," I hurried to explain. She seemed to become upset at the slightest thing. "You won't have dealers and collectors bothering you quite so much, seeing we only go for antiques."
"No." She saw my cup was empty and rose a little too quickly. "You haven't really seen the house, have you?"
"Er… no, but—" I was taken a little by surprise.
"Come on. I'll show you." Mystified by these sudden changes of course, I followed her in from the terrace.
The house wasn't quite the age I'd expected. Despite that, it was only just beginning to feel lived-in. Muriel had taste. Flowers matched the house colors and weren't too obtrusive the way some people have them, though you couldn't help thinking what a terrible fate it was to be scythed off in your prime and stuck in a pot to decay.
"Could I please… ?"
"Yes?" We were on the stairs, apparently about to tour upstairs.
"Would you mind very much if I asked to see where Eric was found?" To my surprise she was unperturbed.
"Not at all." We descended together. "I thought you might."
The room led off the marble-floored hall and was beautifully oak-paneled, done about 1860 or so at a quick guess. Muriel's unfaltering taste had enabled it to be exposed to more daylight than others could have allowed. She'd used long heavy velvet curtains drawn well back from the tall windows to draw attention to their height.
"I like it."
"Eric used it for a collecting room and his study. I never came in much when he was alive." She wandered about touching things rather absently, a book, the desk, adjusting a reading lamp. The carpet was Afghan but pleasing for all that. A small Wilson oil, the right size for that missing Italian waterfall painting he did, hung facing the desk, setting my chest clanging. However, care was needed, so I filed the facts and said nothing.
"I warned you about interlopers," I said.
"I know what you collectors are like. All Eric's things have gone, as I said, so I've no reason to fear."
"Do you see any of Eric's acquaintances still?"
"No," she said firmly.
"No collectors?" She paused at that, then again told me no. I shrugged mentally. It was none of my business. "If one does turn up," I said, chancing my arm, "tell him I'd rather like to see him."
We gazed at the lawns and admired the sweeping landscaped gardens. Muriel was eager to explain her plans for the coming flower show. I let her prattle on and, adopting an idiot smile, stared toward the flower beds.
In the window was the reflection of a small occasional table, mahogany drop-leaf with a single stem leg, quite good but Victorian. I couldn't see the top surface because it was covered with a neat new tablecloth. On it were mats and the essentials for starting the inevitable tea ceremony. I never came in it much when Eric was alive were her words. Therefore she did use it now, and fairly frequently from the way she had spoken. And whoever the visitor was must be a fairly regular customer. He rated the cozy intimacy of a sophisticated room from which all sour memories had been happily erased. I only rated the terrace. Hey-ho.
That would account for her reflective smile when I'd asked if she would keep the house on. It depended on just things, she'd said. Maybe it would also explain her displeasure when my miscued remark had suggested that collectors were hardly interested in people. Was he therefore a collector? I wondered about her holy friend. Older, but age doesn't really matter. Never mind what people say.
Still, where was the harm? It was quite some time ago since her husband had died. Sooner or later she was going to meet somebody new, as the song says. You couldn't blame her—or him, come to that. I honestly felt a twinge of jealousy. I couldn't help starting to work out how much I could buy with Muriel's wealth. I'd start with a group of Wedgwood jaspers. Then I'd— No good, Lovejoy.
"Come and see me off," I asked.
She agreed. "I'll get my coat and ride with you to the gate."
I strolled out onto the drive. The gardeners were grumbling with the endurance of their kind. As I approached I heard one saying, "That swine never grew those leeks himself. The bastard bought them, I'll bet." And I grinned inwardly at the politics of village competitions. At that moment his companion, detecting the presence of an observer, made a cautionary gesture, at which both turned to greet me with rearranged faces. Seeing my slipshod frame, they relaxed and grinned. I nodded affably and strolled on. They'd thought perhaps I was Muriel. Or Lagrange?
She was in the car when I returned. I'd get no kiss today. You can tell a woman enraptured by someone else. The delight isn't delight with you. Her vivacity's pleasure at what's to come, and in case you miss the point it's you that's departing. The minute it took to drive her to the gate I used to good effect, being as secure and companionable as other characters of the landscape. She blew me a kiss from the gate.
A child, I thought, just a child. Everything must be kind and happy for her. And in her protective shell of opulence she would instinctively make the whole world appear so. Lucky bloke, whoever he was.
The White Hart quietened a bit as I entered, but when a raving nut goes anywhere people behave circumspectly no matter how hard they try to look normal. Tinker bravely came along the bar for a chat, but Jimmo and Harry Bateman were obviously preoccupied and couldn't manage a nod. I was calm, easily innocent, and merely eager to talk about antiques. Jane, cautious on her stool, was relaxed enough to offer me a couple of rare book bindings—though I wouldn't normally touch them with a barge pole and she knew it—and Adrian gave me welcome only a little less effusive than usual.
Tinker had a source of antique violins—no, don't laugh, they're not the trick they used to be—for me, owned by a costermonger of all things. He had found as well a collector of old bicycles who was in the market for price-adjusted swaps, wanting assorted domestic Victoriana, poor misguided soul; and his third offer was some collector after old barrows. You know, the sort you use in gardens. At a pinch this last character would buy antique shovels if the antique wheelbarrow market was a little weak.
"An exotic crew, Tinker," I commented over my pale ale.
"It's the way it's happening, Lovejoy," he said. "I don't know whether I'm coming or going these days, honest. No two alike."
"Good."
"I wish it was." Drummers like Tinker are notorious moaners, worse than farmers.
"Better for business when tastes vary," I said, nodding to Dick, who'd just come in with traces of the boatyard still on him. Dick waved and gave me the thumbs-up sign.
"I like things tidy," said Tinker, except for Dandy Jack the untidiest man I knew.
"I like collectors," I answered just to goad him and get a mouthful of invective for my trouble.
A couple of new dealers were in from the West Country and, unaware of my recent history, latched affably on to me and we did a couple of provisional deals after a while. I earmarked for them a small folio of antiquary data, drawings of excavations in Asia Minor and suchlike, done by an industrious clergyman from York about 1820. It was supported by abstracts from the modern literature, photographs, and articles, plus the diary of a late-Victorian lady who'd spent a lengthy sojourn near the excavations and described them in detail. All good desirable script. They in their turn came up with a Forsyth scent-bottle lock, which they showed me there and then, an early set of theodolites they'd bring to the pub next day, and what sounded a weird collection of early sports equipment I'd have to travel to see. Knowing nothing about early sports gear, I fell back on my thoughtful introverted expression and said I was definitely interested but I'd have to think about it. They asked after a Pauly air gun, but I said how difficult it was to find such rarities and I'd see what I could do. I might let them have a Durs air gun in part exchange.