Every Last Cent

15

THE MARKET WAS already closing down Scheregate Steps, so the cheapo grub Filtho Shaughnessy cooks there to pollute our internal organs wasn't available. He packs up earliest of all the stalls because he's a lifeboat man down the estuary. Instead, I went to Princess Beatrice's Splendid Tea Shoppe on North Hill.

Bea Willing, no pun intended, runs it. With Marjorie's money I ordered a plate of scones, seven jam tarts, a pot of tea, a heap of toast, Lancashire cheese, and a plate of fried bread. I felt really proud. Bea served it with enough serviettes to stuff a mattress.

Every one of her four minute tables held posies of flowers. The curtains are chintz.

Portraits of Princess Beatrice (whoever was she?) adorned the walls. The name was spelled out in flowers over Bea's counter. Souvenirs were on sale near the fireplace, miniature busts, lace hankies 'as worn by our beloved Princess Beatrice!' and suchlike. I like Bea, who used to be in antiques but is now going straight. Princess Beatrice appeared to her in a vision.

'Can I tempt you to subscribe to my canonization fund, Lovejoy?'

'And help religion? My grampa'd have a fit.'

'No, dear. For our beloved Princess Beatrice!' Bea's eyes filled. 'I've got her really close to beatification!'

However hopeful, it's all hopeless. I felt sorry. Bea doesn't have a cat in hell's chance of getting Princess Beatrice made a saint. The process used to take a century, until Pope John Paul II started the modern sainthood epidemic. I knew – know – little about sanctity and less about princesses. Anyway, it's only women who can answer lineage questions — like who was ninth in line to the throne in 1935, and so on – on those tiresome quiz shows where you can win a million but nobody ever does.

'Wish you luck, Bea.' I started wolfing my grub.

She affects rustic dress, long russet skirt, smocked apron, lace mobcap, lace bertha when she has to go through to the kitchen. Bea has a pretty granddaughter aged eight dolled up in matching Victoriana who helps out during a rush (meaning when any two customers arrive simultaneously). Polly chews gum and hums Top Ten tunes. I have a lurking suspicion that Polly secretly enjoys spoiling Bea's Splendid Tea Shoppe ambience.

'Lovejoy?' Polly came to watch, swinging her foot. 'You eat fast.'

'Wotcher, Poll. I'm hungry, that's why.'

'I got chewing gum in my hair again last night.'

'You get it out okay?'

I once showed Bea how. You warm some chocolate in a pan, rub it briskly on the gum stuck to the child's hair, and it slides off like a dream. The butterfat, see? Continental chocolate doesn't work half as well. I made a lifelong friend in Polly, who sticks chewing gum into her hair every chance she gets to win a free boost of chocolate. The chocolate trick also does for chewing gum stuck on antique carpets. (Incidentally, for gum stuck on to small firm items, like a wooden carving or picture frames, put the antique into the freezer, if it'll take it. The gum lifts off clean as a whistle. It works for your best Northampton shoes as well.)

Polly is also my spy. No fewer than four antique shops are on North Hill near Bea's caff.

One elderly gentleman was in, reading The Times. He wore a hearing aid, the flex dangling. Safe.

'Spied anything, Polly?'

'Yes. A lady came with the police.' And as my heart griped, 'They raided Sandy's shop.'

She bent her head to spare the old colonel and whispered, 'Sandy's queer as a square frock. Did you know?'

'Watch your language, miss! You're only eight, you little sod.'

'Granma!' Polly rushed through the counter flap. 'Lovejoy sweared.'

'Tell him to stop it this instant!' from Bea's voice, distant in the kitchen.

The wretch had done it just to get me in trouble. Polly returned glowing with satisfaction and started to eat my fried bread. She cleared it almost as fast as me. It became a race. You wouldn't think a shrimp her size could engulf grub that fast.

'When?' I asked.

'Last night. I had to watch from upstairs because there was something bad on telly and Granma said I'd to sleep quick.' She swung listlessly in her little russet dress. 'Don't you want to know what happened?'

'Yes, please.'

'They took Peter Myer away. He's got nice ears. Nobody got shot.'

'Doesn't sound much of a police raid without shooting.'

'It wasn't bad,' said this connoisseur of crime. 'They've left some police inside. I think they're being kept in because they didn't do things right. Like detention, see?'

'How many?'

'They come with seven, and four come out. Four from seven leaves three.'

'So it does.' Three police still in Antiques Antics across the road. Sandy owns it. Well, well. Spies have their uses.

'They sent for a lot of televisions. And,' she added, 'wires and things. And long guns.

Why've you no marmalade?'

Long guns to Polly might well be some kind of telescopes. What Polly saw as TV sets might be CCTV consoles for closed circuitry cameras. Were they harking to me and little Polly even as we spoke?

'Good idea. Miss, could I please have some marmalade?' I asked. Such is our game.

'Yes, sir.' She fetched it by climbing onto a stool. We resumed our meal. She has three sugars in one cup, hardly room for the tea.

'The police motors followed a horrible American woman. I hated her teeth. She came in for some Gentleman's Relish yesterday and said Granma charged too much. She has terrible hair.'

'Where is Peter now, love?'

'He's poorly. He went in an ambulance. My kitten went in one once for its ears. They grew pus and one nearly fell off.' I stopped eating. 'Gangrene,' said this little angel. 'It rots cats' heads.'

I left soon after, smiling and waving to Polly at the door and shouting ta to Bea. I didn't even glance at Peter's double-fronted antiques shop, nor did I look at the other three on the steep slope. It leads down to the old North Gate of Roman times, long since crumbled and now encrusted with terraced houses and small shops. Quite pleasant old pubs by the river. But why had Peter been done over, and the police called, to lurk behind the curtains? Almost as if they expected somebody to come burgling.

Which raised the question what did he have that somebody needed so badly, that the police also were interested in?

I was halfway through the shopping precinct when a motor drew up alongside me and a lady's voice told me to get in. I obeyed, because that's what I do.

'Your money, Lovejoy. And for your divvies.'

'Ta.'

She still hadn't learned to smile. I decided I wouldn't, either. Take that, oh wicked one.

I didn't count the gelt, just said to drop me anywhere.

'Stay.' She wasn't driving. Her husband Taylor was at the wheel. He did enough beaming for the pair of them, like it was his part of an understood bargain. 'You'll work for me. It'll take one week. You get a share of the take.'

'None of the others any good?'

'I've rerun the home movie, Lovejoy. The sofa table, the earthenware coin box, the marble faun, the pewter. Taylor had three cameras. It took him quite a while to spot your signs. Any noise – cough, clearing your throat – was a warning to say false, right?

Silence was approval.'

'What gave us away?' I asked hoarsely. Besides Tina's betrayal, I thought.

'The silence of the rest. They stood looking from you to the antiques, learning what was good and what bad.'

'Who blemished the marble?'

'That old thing? Me, of course. Don't worry, Lovejoy. There's much, much more at stake than those bits and pieces.'

'When?'

'Soon. Out.'

Out? 'Oh, right.' I stood on the pavement, worrying whether to say thank you or not.

The motor revved, shrank into the middle distance.

For a while I looked down North Hill. Sandy and Mel actually owned Antique Antics.

They lease it to Peter Myer for a peppercorn rent. Don't ask for reasons. Now, I thought as I went for the bus, Peter Myer and Sandy might be colluding with the plod, or Peter was under arrest. But what was worth setting up a police surveillance unit for? The plod never stir far from the TVs in their social clubs, unless forced. Besides Bea's teashop the only thing directly opposite was an insurance agency – 'Registered Speciality at Lloyd's of London!' – belonging to Timothy Giverell. I vaguely knew him, and his wife Florence.

Dull as you'd ever get.

Then I thought oh what the hell, and decided to call on the Countess. Then the forger.

Then I'd do the burglary. Keep things in order. My mind was getting so cluttered I was starting to lose the plot. Actors say that a lot.