Moonspender (7 page)

Filling with fried bread and humanitarianisms, I sorted the
responses to my adverts. The two dealers replying to the nonexistent Polstead
lady were
Ellston
—a
Clacton
porcelain dealer—and
Mannie
, a Vitamin Earth lentil
eater who deals in antique clocks. Both piously offered to save the poor widow
heartbreak, and do it for nothing. And nick half the stuff while doing it, too,
which they didn't mention.

"The swine," I said aloud, with heartfelt indignation.
Lucky there was no such widow. I burned the replies. The imaginary Polstead
lady's advert had offered 
Late relative's collection of archeological
items for sale to interested buyer. No dealers
, I'd written. Tinker hates
these jobs with nothing really to go on, but it was time the drunken old devil
earned his keep. Times were hard at Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.

My American Buyer advert called for real celebration: 
Cash
money offered for old pottery figures.
 Five replies, only one
worthwhile answer. A slow printed hand wrote of a "Pottery piece, a woman
carrying two
eshets
", and said I could call any
time on Mrs. Rowena Ray at 2, Sebastopol Cottages, Dedham. It sounded honest
and frank—maybe the most really underhand trick of all. It was the sort of
thing I'd write, so naturally I was suspicious. However, the use of the old
farm word for bucket suggested some grannie flogging off her heirlooms. You
never know.

As the "London Collector" I'd enticed 
Genuine
Householders Only: quality furniture needed for Kensington sale. Highest prices
paid
. Nothing about antiques, note. The six responses to this advert were
today's best, of course; they represented families. Even if you're only invited
in to see a wobbly 1945 bed, it still gives you the opportunity of sussing what
else is in the house. . . .

Somebody was knocking. Probably Tinker. Thinking I must have
absently shot the bolt I got up instead of shouting, but no, the door wasn't
barred. A polite bloke stood there, smiling expectantly. The breeze chilled my
knees.

Warily I eyed him for concealed warhorses, whips, the odd phalanx
of hoodlums, police insignia, and warrants for my arrest. So far it hadn't been
a good day.

"Ah, Lovejoy?" he said anxiously.

"Yes." I was reassured. He got good points for anxiety,
because huntsmen, gangsters, and police are famous for its absence.

"I called earlier. Unfortunately you were out."

Could this be Sykie's mark? I usually turn errors into habit, so
gave him my best bent eye. Stolid. Polite. Moderately well attired. Smooth
hands, and a tie without emblems, so maybe common sense lurked within. The
silence was now painful. He shuffled anxiously, earning another point. Aggro
doesn't shuffle. He saw my gaze on the plastic bag he held.

"I, er, had to call for some vegetables. Off Billiam Cutting,
that writer at Ramparts Comer." He smiled self-consciously. "Cheaper
than shops."

"Come in," I said, casting the door and leaving him to
shut it. "Want a cup of tea? I've no sugar."

"Do us both good, then."

He took a few minutes to settle. He was Ben Cox, director of a
Suffolk archeology trust. "I'm supposed to write first, according to our
rules," he said disarmingly. "But . . ."

Yes, I thought, as I washed him my spare mug and tried to find a
clean bit on the pot towel to dry it, this sounds definitely more like a Sykes
ploy than the landed gentry's posh new manorial caff.

"Difficult." I said understandingly. "Want some
fried bread?"

"No, thanks," he said, pleased. "My missus."

"
Mmmmh
," I sympathized. Women
go berserk if you've had anything to eat before coming to their table, God
knows why. You'd think it'd be easier for them if people arrived half full.

I got on with my grub. The tomatoes were congealing nicely on the
cold plate. If you play your cards right, you can scoop up a whole slurp on one
rent of bread. It makes a lovely mouthful. I hesitated to try,

having company, but decided to give it a go and failed. It was an
omen, but I didn't know that then. He grinned.

"I do that," he said. "Hard, isn't it? Easier on a
deeper plate."

"Really?" I was impressed. Education must be spreading.
I'd never met a really sensible academic bloke before. "East
Anglians
call us Silly Suffolk," he added, laughing.
"They probably mean me. My wife won't have me doing it. You're lucky,
eh?"

"Now," I said. Women don't last where I'm concerned.
It's not entirely their fault. They simply lack staying power. My one wife had
left quickly, claiming I was zero potential. To this day I've never had a penny
in gratitude for all the love and devotion I lavished on her. Well, nearly
lavished. She'd even demanded alimony. "Eh?" I asked. Cox had said
something important while I'd been romancing.

"I saw your broadcast." He was smiling apologetically.
"Very impressive. The second half wasn't half as good. I'm pursuing
ancient bronzes. I came to enlist your aid."

Pursuit, like in hunt? Here was a chance to change roles. I nearly
asked about Sykie, but remembered in the nick of time I wasn't to mention him.
Cool Lovejoy. "Pursue? To where?"

"Ah. I'm afraid we don't know that."

"What antique bronzes, exactly?"

"I'm afraid we don't know that either, Lovejoy."

"Then who nicked them?"

"Well, we don't really know."

A definite pause, but I'm not impoverished for nothing.
"Where were they nicked from?"

"Ah, well. I'm afraid . . ."

"Then," I said, a headache coming on, "where were
they found?" Pause. "For
Chrissakes
,"
I yelled, forsaking my nosh to walk about in anguish, "if you don't know
what they are, who's nicked them, where they've gone, where they came from, why
the hell do you want me to chase the frigging things?"

He rotated his hat miserably. "That's half the problem,
Lovejoy. They're not even discovered yet."

My head throbbed briskly. "Half the problem?" I seethed,
sitting and glaring at the table. "Never tell me the other half, mate.
You're a nutter."

"Please don't be angry, Lovejoy. Only we're in such a
mess."

"I'm not angry!" I bawled, furious. I could have
strangled him. I thought, I'll kill Sykie one of these days. It's always me who
finishes up in plaster, poverty, and prison, never these barmy sods.

For a whole minute I sat seethed, shoving tomato pips round my
plate with a fork. I got twelve in a row. Toffee smarmed her way onto Cox's lap
unnoticed, I was surprised to see. He stroked her.

My neurons synapsed with audible clangs. Another Lovejoy winner.
Sykie's opinion of academic archeology was likely to impose few demands on East
Anglia, or on me. His goons, however, were a feral mob of barbarians, so I'd
better get it right this time. Cox might not be Sykie's mark at all.

"Look, Mr. Cox. Was it simply chance that brought you
here?"

"Yes, chance, really." He was utterly dejected. Toffee
sensed his distress and stared reproachfully at me. "I take it this means
you, ah, can't assist us?"

Not Sykie's man after all. "Well, I've got a lot on," I
said. "Otherwise I'd come like a shot. I'll try to call on you, say,
tomorrow." I meant no. What with Raymond getting nicked over his Wedgwood
fiddle, my promise to help Suzanne York's restaurant, Sykie, Ledger the
Bodger
, I was committed.

"I understand." He was quite gracious about it, which
made me feel even worse, and rose, pouring Toffee to the floor. "I do
realize it's a commercial world."

He bade a quiet farewell. He waved from the gateway, smiling, and
went off carrying his bag of cheap vegetables. I felt mad because I felt bad as
I slammed back inside. Toffee was reclining on my rug, exuding scorn. I wasn't
taking that from a frigging feline.

"You vagabond moggie," I gritted. "Who gets beaten
black and blue? Me! Who starves to frigging death while you don't raise a
frigging finger? Me! And who's got to keep this antiques firm going? Me. So
less of your frigging lip. Hear?"

She walked away, soulful and censorious, and sat watching the
garden birds. Just then the blue tits came tapping on the window for their
nuts, the robin started screeching outside for his grub, and Harry my blackbird
arrived to glare impatiently from the sill. Must be half-six.

"Why me?" I yelled at them all, apoplectic.
"Frigging chiselers, out for an easy touch!"

Mother Nature continued to tap, screech, glare, beg. I was
grumbling my old refrain, how had they managed before I arrived, when something
odd happened, really fantastic. The telephone rang. Now, because

my phone had been cut off for two months. Everybody in the Eastern
Hundreds knew it. I was so astonished I sat staring at the thing. It's the
ancient black daffodil type because I can't stand those absurd installments you
have to act hunchback to keep on your shoulder.

It rang and rang, then stopped. I was glad, and in relief started
to clear my pots away.

It rang again. I pretended it was routine, picked it up and said,
"Hello?"

Bad, bad mistake. I should have used wire cutters on the flex.
This time it was Sykie's mark for certain.

Hereon life goes downhill.

6

Toffee was getting fed up being carried about in her basket so at
nine next morning I presented her to a neighbor's house. Eleanor rushed to the
door. I've never known a woman like her for hurtling. She's never still, always
late, forever breathless.

"A cat?" she squealed, distraught. "But I haven't
time, Lovejoy! I'm so behind!"

When women are in a mad dash you have to take a firm line or you
get nowhere. "Toffee's come to play with Henry," I announced in a
parliamentary voice. "I've to call on an important client. She can share
Henry's grub, no bother." More likely
Henry'd
eat hers, I thought but did not say.

"Very well," she said, screamed, "The oven!"
and zoomed inside.

Humping Toffee, I wandered after and found Henry in his playpen.
He's lately learned to maraud unaided, thus gets strapped behind bars so
Eleanor can sprint about the county being late for everything. When sitting up
he wobbles a bit, but can crawl and bawl with gusto. Seeing me, he gave a great
grin and a prolonged yell of greeting. A yard of grot dangled from his chin.
You have to keep wiping it off or he's soon swimming in spit.

"Listen, Henry," I said, giving him a mechanical wipe
and lifting Toffee out. "This creature is not edible.
Comprenny
?"

He ogled in astonishment as I deposited Toffee in his pen. They
stalked round each other, Toffee with detachment, Henry panting and chugging
his one exclamation, a sort of brief
oooh
. He's no
linguist.

"There's a rule, troops," I added. "Neither of
you's
to eat or deform the other till I get back." I
then went to say so long to Eleanor. She'd got into a terrible shambles in the
kitchen.

"Quick, Lovejoy, quick!" she squealed, dithering about
with a steaming skillet while pans bubbled and the oven blinked signals in
red-eyed urgency.

"Right," I said calmly. "Be with you in a sec,
love," and left her to get on with it. Honestly, why ask me for help?
Bloody cheek. Pans are her job, not mine. Anyway, she's experienced in handling
messes—she used to go out with me once upon a time. There's honestly nothing
between us now, though. No, really honestly. I do a bit of Henry-sitting now
and again when I'm absolutely broke, that's all.

The bus was canceled or late. It never matters which. Jacko, our
village opportunist, got his rickety old lorry out and clattered me into town.
He sang "La
Golandrina
" wrong all the way,
and dropped me off at the war memorial. From there I walked to the office of
Castor Chemical Industries on the bypass, and found the snooty secretary who
had phoned me the previous night. I'd asked if it was to do with antiques, and
was told yes. Sir John had seen me on television. Sykie's mark? Had to be.

Well, an antique collector is a collector. They're great. I really
admire them, even though they're the weirdest mob on earth. Nutters, maniacs,
scholars, lovers, the whole lunatic herd. And why? Because they're greed-crazed
for love, which is a beautiful, wonderful state to be in. It's the attribute of
God. In fact I'll go so far as to say that as long as love-lust is alive and
well, God is still in with a chance.

"Take a seat," the secretary said, giving me the woman's
totaling look—feet, trousers, jacket, hands, face. Miss Minter had the terrible
barren beauty of an air hostess, believing herself stunningly glamorous and at
the peak of her calling. A laugh. Every woman I've ever known could leave her
standing, even if she did measure right, poor thing.

"No, ta." The office was brilliantly designed in
repellent plastics. You'd struggle a month to get up from the fawn suede couch,
and never make it. What 
is
 wrong with everybody these days?