Every Last Cent

38

IN THE MAIN foyer a plain modern display case made me halt, though Maud was –

tugging me on saying we'd be late for the concert.

In it stood a terracotta head. I stared. It was a Nok figure. Just that. No notices, not a word of explanation. No guard, either. I'd never even seen one before, but I knew it could buy us all and leave enough for fish and chips on the way home.

'Wait, love.'

My breath was suddenly difficult. I stood. Folk went on past into the auditorium. Maud was on the staircase, fingers drumming on the brass handrail. I couldn't hear what she said for the chimes belling in my middle. I felt sick, malarial.

Hunting treasures is as human as greed. Look at the so-called Rommel Treasure, ditched into the Mediterranean off Corsica in 1944. Every year, hunters with impossibly refined electronics seek these six packing cases of pure gold nicked from Libya's Tripoli and Tunisia during World War Two. Nobody succeeds, maybe because they look in the wrong place. (The Santo Antonio monastery is the nearest marker, if you want a try, and good luck.) But not all wealth is pretty.

There's a horridity in antiques. I swear some folk go for worrisome shapes and figures simply because they shock. A lady – lives up my lane – once did her living room out in purple flock wallpaper with dark scarlet corners, lampshades, skirting, rugs, cushions. It looked like the Inferno, but she proudly showed it off. Everybody thought her barmy. I thought it classy, because I liked her. Fine by me.

This antique head was different, though. I knew exactly where it had come from.

One of life's problems is the balance between greed and honesty. Think for example of the plight of some poor man whose country's in a hell of a state. Let's say he's a humble doorman at nothing more than a folklore museum. He's not been paid. The government's embroiled in revolution. People fleeing the city. Gunfire is heard at night, ever closer. (Now this is real, not made up.) What can he do? He has no friends in high places. His wife isn't from some rich clan, tribe. She earns a farthing cleaning, but the rich folk have fled in their Lagondas. His family's starving.

Then he thinks, our little frightened man. He has the keys to the museum. But tourists don't come any more. No coaches full of camera-toting holidaymakers. His bosses are in Geneva or Acapulco. Desperately hoping to get paid, though, our little bloke still trudges in each day, unlocks the museum, crouches in the dust guarding his country's ancient treasures.

He's never felt so alone, so desperate.

He ponders. Inside, there's a ton of artefacts. Educated strangers travel thousands of miles to visit his shabby museum. They take photos with their expensive cameras, admiring the old-fashioned things.

What do these visitors admire? Why, one item especially: some manky old terracotta thing. It's a head, its features long, the chin showing a tufted beard, braided hair and tight, squarish ears. It wears a terracotta necklace and seems to be looking askance.

Now, our little man squatting in the dusty doorway wouldn't give the thing the time of day. Also, aren't these old tribal statuettes ghostly?

Then up comes a bloke, perhaps the only visitor our doorman has seen since the troubles began. What ho, says the foreigner, can I see your museum? The little custodian's pleased. Maybe this stranger's arrival heralds a return to normality – wages, food, buses running again! Certainly, sir, in you go. Hoping for a tip, he eagerly shows the feller round. This conversation occurs:

Visitor: What a beautiful statuette!

Doorman: Foreigners admire it. It is old.

(Now, our little geezer thinks it's crud. But who is he to disagree?) Visitor (sighs): My father has always wanted one. Unfortunately he is ill.

Doorman: I wish him better, with God's help.

Visitor: If only I could show this to my sick father! I would pay x dollars / euros just to borrow it for a week.

A gremlin alights on the doorman's shoulder and whispers how wonderful it would be.

All that money! Who would know?

A week later, an unbelievably rare antique terracotta figure, such as this one from Nok in Nigeria, makes its appearance in London's showrooms and is sold for umpteen thousand. These figures, incidentally, look like nothing on earth. Mirthless, lips slightly agape, eyes triangular, necklaces of the same dulled earthenware. Yet one in pretty tatty condition will buy you a freehold townhouse.

This Quay Theatre piece was from Nok. I suppose I've made it sound really neff, but it's not. There's a plateau in Nigeria called Jos where these figures were made two thousand years ago. Collectors go mad for them, and pay fortunes. Why? Because they're the only real evidence that sophisticated sculptors were there that long ago.

Sombre, almost menacing, they're not the sort of art you'd want on your sideboard, but dealers will kill for them. African travellers bring them into London, Munich, Zurich. Our dealers say, 'Netting Hill for illicit tribals.' They're not wrong.

'Whose is this, love?' I managed to get out.

She was smiling. 'I haven't the faintest notion, Lovejoy. I know Dad used to have one, but his was even uglier.'

The brigadier? One swallow doesn't make a summer, yet if his syndicate could display a Nok head with such cavalier abandon, unguarded in a foyer, it was a message, and such a message. No wonder the Countess wanted to supplant them. It was a sign to the knowing – look, see what we can get hold of any day of the week.

'Coming,' I said. I wanted to stick with her now. Obediently we went to watch the most dreadful concert of all time.

When it started the awful music made me nod off. The audience thinned, I noticed, many choosing not to return after the tacky excitement of Sandy's arrival and my actors' phoney antiques thrills. The songs were dross.

My mind kept going over what the Countess said. I was to help her, instead of the syndicate. She'd control the import of antiques. It was all the same to me. One tyrant's very like another. The only difference was that I'd get passion as a bonus from the Countess, not Maud. Promises, promises.

Maud sat with me in our grand box, everything going her way.

Several times I caught her looking at me with a frankly misty gaze, edging towards passion. She held my hand, even brought my arm round her. We were safe from gossipy eyes. We had champagne, too. I didn't touch mine because it gives me belly-wark. I'm lucky to be too poor to buy it. To please Maud I pretended to sip.

The singers came and went, warbling, wavering, shrilly vibrato up and down scales nobody but a deranged composer could love. The audience slyly began to drift faster. It was pretty poor. The orchestra had been replaced by a dud pianist. While some old dear screeched out a Britten piece I found my mind trying to work out the cost. Why the heck pay good money – if there is such a thing – for this sham?

I'm not keen on gelt. No, honest. I really do believe we think too much about it. Once you've got enough for bread and cheese, money's not a lot of use unless you're up to something. Maud was on fire. Her eyes met mine, ablaze with fervour. Was I worth all that?

Worry must have shown in my face because she leaned close to whisper, 'Don't worry, Lovejoy. We were meant to be.'

Between songs, I could hear the faint babble of some gathering in the ante-room.

Possibly the orchestra and departing singers, leaving for their respective boozers. As the boring show ground on, though, the distant hubbub dwindled, until finally it too fell silent. The steam went out of our entertainers' performances. The audience drifted ever faster.

Sandy must have persuaded Brig's syndicate to stump up the money. It must have cost.

The great swan barge, the dancers, slaves and slavettes, torch bearers, the fireworks.

Not to mention the professional orchestra to start the proceedings. And decorations cost a pretty penny. I badly wanted to see Quaker. He'd tell me. If it was the brigadier's syndicate, the problem would be that much less.

'Where's Quaker, love?' I whispered.

Maud had her hand on my leg. 'He won't be coming.'

Who'd passed her that message?

A tenor was singing. I recognized him as a cricket umpire. Were we down to this, a musical of neffie warblers? No wonder people were vanishing in droves.

'And your dad?'

'Shhh.'

One newcomer crept in with that slow apology the body naturally makes when interrupting someone's performance. Florence Giverill, looking tired.

The show finally trailed to an end. By then only a scattered few were left. The applause was desultory. Some geezer came on to say ta and how marvellous. The curtain swished to with relief. The place seemed so hot. I wanted to wave to Florence but she was in the stalls below and didn't look up.

We went into the corridor. I kept looking about. No familiar faces now, just Maud's bright visage excited beyond what the evening deserved. It had been a mediocre show.

She looked almost feverish.

'Let's have a drink on the balcony, Lovejoy.'

'Have we got time?' The place was closing fast. 'What about your meeting?'

She didn't hesitate, 'You're always so particular.'

The bar, usually so crowded, was almost deserted, just one barman washing glasses and tidying up. A couple had obviously sat out the last half-hour. They left as we entered. Maud put a note on the counter. I got the drinks and followed her out onto the balcony and stood beside her in the night air.

This was where Sandy's soaring staircase had risen from the swan barge on the river below. I looked over. All gone now. Fairy lights still adorned the riverbanks, but the fireworks had ended and the crowd dispersed. A last pair of snoggers glided below the bridge. Lucky bloke. I realized that I'd thought that thought about a lot of people tonight. Lucky others, not me.

'Isn't it blissful, Lovejoy?'

'Constable painted this stretch. He liked it.'

'And Gainsborough.'

Well, Gainsborough would, randy git. Hardly a blade of grass hadn't carried Tom G and his various birds at some time along his riverside. I didn't say this because the truth maddens women.

'When's the meeting?' I asked, to get things clear.

She leaned against the balcony, appraising me. The lights went out on the floor below, darkening the river. Probably last of the singers and ushers going home.

'Why are you so concerned about the meeting, Lovejoy?'

'The brigadier'll be narked if I make you late. And Quaker.'

'What's the difference? You can't come to it.' She sounded mischievous, like she was setting me up for the laughter of others. I looked about. Nothing. Coloured lights downriver doused with appalling swiftness, leaving their imprint in my eye. The point was, I wanted to see who would be there. It was the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle.

Whoever killed Vestry, drove Bernicka to suicide, and killed Timothy Giverill, was in the brigadier's syndicate. They were all responsible. Maybe it had been real democracy, let's take a vote, who's for executing Vestry, Bernicka, Timothy Giverill, show of hands?

There's no telling when money rules.

I felt sudden pity for Bernicka, always worrying that her fifty-four years would show, crow's feet, her crazed love for Leonardo da Vinci, then dying like that. It simply wasn't fair.

'Can I lock up?' The barman came to the balcony doors and started setting catches.

'Yes, fine,' Maud said, while I said no. 'We can go down the outer staircase.'

'It's regulations, see.'

He closed us on the balcony. I heard him shooting bolts along the doors. Reinforced, I now saw. I was ill at ease.

Cars started up, a door slammed. Voices called, a girl laughed, hurry up or Jane'll be late again, hahaha. Maud sipped at her glass. I didn't sip my drink, no wish for it. I find I only hold one because it's expected, don't imbibe as much as others want me to.

It wasn't like I was trapped. And there were worse fates than being encaged with a gorgeous bird like Maud. She placed her glass on the balcony rim and moved close. Her palm came on me. I gasped. Another choice taken out of my hands, so to speak. It isn't the same for women. They can simply say stop it, step aside and that's the end of the matter. A bloke can't. It's their power. My throat went thick. I managed to speak.

'How did you stop Quaker coming here?' I asked.

'I didn't. A friend did it for me.'

'Lanny Langley-Willes?' Had my voice gone higher? I don't usually sound breathless.

Her hand kneaded me.

'Him?' Contempt, so soon? 'He just does a few valuations for Dad.'

Another one from the old regiment, hey? I couldn't speak. She held me in thrall, poets would have said. Somebody below called to check the main doors.

Was the Nok statuette still there? I wondered why somebody had brought it in the first place. With this audience, there was unlikely to be an enormous amount of expertise knocking about. Or had somebody been watching, judging my reaction as me and Maud re-entered? 'Lovejoy, mate?'

I'd never been so relieved to hear Tinker's hoarse yell. Maud exclaimed in anger.

Quickly I bawled down, 'Aye, Tinker. Up here.'

He called, 'There's a feller and two birds at the Drum and Flag.' I couldn't see him in the dark. 'Wants ter see you.'

That was a relief. I'd never wanted to escape from Maud before.

'Door open, is it? This balcony's locked.'

He chuckled, huff-huff-huff followed by a prolonged cough and a spit.

'You randy git. It's all shut. There's wood stairs. Pull the rope.'

'Tell them I'll be there in a minute.'

'Right, son.'

I heard his cough recede. Concealing my relief I turned to Maud and said I'd got to go, would see her after. 'It'll be Quaker, love. Him or the brigadier.'

'Go, Lovejoy?' She seemed to be sulking. I could see her face against the sky glow, not quite a silhouette. 'When we're partners for life?'

'Look, love. I want out from all this.'

'You – want – out?' Her hand slapped my head sideways. 'Don't you understand? I've made sacrifices to get that stupid obsessed dolt out of my life. To have you instead.

And you say you want out?'

Her hand lashed me. I felt stunned, tried to back away, stumbled over something, maybe bottles, a stool.

'Look, Maud. Nothing personal. But the Countess came in the interval. It's only a row between two syndicates. For money.' I sounded relieved even to myself. 'It's nothing important.'

'Nothing important? You're mad, Lovejoy! This means survival. Without your talent the syndicate will go under. People who've never lacked a thing in their lives. Not people used to poverty. People in responsible positions.'

'You mean posh folk should be protected from their own greed?'

'Yes!' she screamed, hitting out at me in fury. I ducked and weaved but still she caught me. I felt against the wall for the bloody rope, get out of this.

Then a bloke's iron grip took my arm. His voice said, 'Stop it, Maudie. I've got him.'

God, but I was relieved. Maud halted her assault. I could hear her breaths, fury in every waft.

'Thought you plod were never on time, Sep,' I gasped.

'No jokes, Lovejoy.'

'Sep?' Maud seemed puzzled. 'What are you doing here?'

'I've come to take Lovejoy into custody, Maudie. I have bad news. I'm sorry.'

'What bad news?' I sounded strangled. 'Tinker?'

Tinker couldn't hide, not with his cough. He's like a foghorn. So Sep must mean—

'Quaker's been found in the river, Maudie. He'd been bludgeoned and drowned. No hope, I'm afraid.'

'But—' Maud looked at me.

'Lovejoy slipped out, and did Quaker. I saw him. Lovejoy was seen coming from there.

Then he went to sit with you. Alibi, see?'

'Me?' I bleated. 'I couldn't club anybody, Sep. You know that. Christ, I was in clink with you.'

'You're under arrest, Lovejoy. Don't move!'

'Sep,' Maud said. 'I don't know what you are saying. Where is Quaker? I want to see him.'

Maybe I could dart past the loon, find those wooden steps Sep must have used.

'Stand still, Lovejoy!' Sep yelled, coming at me swinging something.

I ducked, shoved Maud in front of me, stooping so he'd clout her instead of me. He did just that. I heard the crunch, something hitting her. She shrieked and went down moaning. Verner lashed at me and the world span out of sense. I actually heard blurs and saw Sep loom, arm raised.

A balcony door opened. A light came on. The brigadier stepped out, locking the door behind him. He was in full fig, regimental blues, medals, more brass than you'd see on a fender. From a carnival? How come he had keys? He held something long in his hand.

It shone. But was he help, cavalry to the rescue?

'Verner,' he said quietly. 'That'll do.'

'I had to go for Lovejoy, sir. He was about to do for Maudie.'

'Eh?' I tried to stand, but Verner was too close. 'Stay still, Maud, Lovejoy.'

As if I'd want to move with a homicidal plod intent on battering me to death.

'I had to do it, sir,' Verner explained as if making a report, all calm. 'He'd some daft notion about coming clean to that Quayle tart, and helping the Countess's mob to take us over, do us out of our scheme.'

'Stand by the balcony. I'll get Lovejoy up.'

The brigadier moved. Sep moved. I tried to crawl away behind the recumbent moaning mound that was probably Maud, to hide and let her take the brunt of whatever was coming. I thought maybe I could lob myself over the balcony, splash in the water below. Or was the vertical drop onto the quayside, where I'd smash my brains out on the flagstones—

Something swished. Hot wetness hosed across my neck. I screeched, wailed. The thing went swish, swish. Horrid spurts hosed my face.

A gurgle sounded near me. I clasped Maud and hung on, hoping the maniac wouldn't start swinging at his daughter while him and Verner came to some arrangement.

The brigadier grunted. Sep gurgled, tried to cough, failed. The balcony seemed to shiver a second, but it could only have been my imagination. Something heavy fell, thudding onto stones below.

Vertical. The drop was vertical.

Somebody close by – the brigadier, doubtless – shone a pencil torch into the balcony corners. There was blood everywhere. Maud was covered in it. The brigadier stood there, his expression calm. In his hand he held his sabre. It had surprisingly little blood on it at the tip, but the rest was gore, gore. Even the balcony doors' windows were liberally sprayed with a red cascade slowly trickling down the glass panes.

The brigadier stooped, looked at his daughter, then removed the door key and handed it to me.

'Do the necessary, old chap.'

'Eh?'

His face assumed a pained look. 'Insert the key in the other side of the door, if you please. Don't lock it. Then dial the police.'

'Where from?'

'Try the telephone.' He waited expectantly, then added, 'In the bar.'

I did as he said. Just told them to come fast, and bring an ambulance. They started asking me questions, bloody idiots, as if I knew anything.

'Good man,' Brig said. 'Bring Maud a cushion, Lovejoy.' As I turned, he asked conversationally, 'Oh, where did you leave Quaker?'

'I didn't touch him,' I croaked.

'I know,' he said with exhausted patience. 'You couldn't. He was on the opposite side of the river. Just remember that Verner said that, eh?'

'Right, sir,' I said, wondering what the hell he was on about.

He placed the cushion and sat down, cradling Maud.

'You can go, Lovejoy. You are irrelevant. Be prepared to answer their questions later.

Be factual, please.'

'Right.' I hesitated. 'Do you want to get away, Brig? I'll think of something.' God. What if he said yes?

'No, Lovejoy. You fail to understand. Your perennial habit.' He gave a wry smile. Maud stirred in her father's arms. 'I am the principal Name. Therefore I must accept responsibility. Bankruptcy is now my duty.'

'Duty? But you might get out of it.'

'Duty is for doing, not evading. It is the possession of a gentleman.'

'Right, Brig.' He meant he hoped I'd do mine, irrelevant as I was.