Every Last Cent

41

STANSTED AIRPORT is somewhat seedy. It's there because of a plot by politicians.

Public enquiries ruled against the airport. Politicians promised that of course they'd not allow it to be built. Then they reneged. The politicians then made fortunes, the old wallet tango.

We stood like refugees in the wind, rain in the air. The Customs shed is marginally less drossy, but that's only because their turnover is faster, their authority absolute. It must be great to be a robber baron. The nosh is horrible.

'These the cases, ma'am?' some uniformed bloke asked cheerily. They always make cheerfulness sound ominous and agreement a crime.

'Yes.'

Thomasina Quayle was with Florence. I'd got Florence a thick coat from Eleanor. She was well wrapped, a cloche hat jammed on her head. She'd told me five times that she was perishing.

'Forms, ma'am.'

Mrs Quayle took an age filling things in. Only once did she pause, to ask me which of the two largest crates was which. I didn't hesitate. The one containing the fakes that Tinker had driven up from Sanko Deane Pitt's place the previous night was slightly larger and painted green.

'That big green one holds the genuine antiques,' I lied. 'Personal to Consul Sommon.

His certificates ...'

'We did the certificates.' Thomasina Quayle smiled fetchingly. 'You're absolutely certain, Lovejoy?'

Her joke. The Customs and Excise man laughed with a mortician's joviality.

'Yes. The smaller red one only has reproductions. To go to the African state.'

Me and Florence waited for the consignment to move to the aircraft. God, but these new planes are giants. Makes you wonder how they ever get up there.

'Lovejoy,' Florence said as we watched two officers on Mrs Quayle's team walk with the lady alongside the shipment. The big green crate was on a low caged trailer of its own.

'I heard yesterday about the reward.'

'Reward?'

'It's a lot of money. Even after legal expenses.'

'Whose reward?'

'Mine.' She went red. 'When I went to see the lawyer about the bankruptcy, while that Mr Verner ... lost his life in that tragic fall. I actually called in at Mrs Quayle's office and revealed everything I knew about Timothy's insurance commitments, and to whom. She was very pleased, and went to the tavern to arrest you all.'

'Ta, love.'

'She promised that filming you all in the tavern alcove would exonerate you. She was so happy.'

'I'll bet she was.'

'You're not angry?'

'No.' I might have been stone dead, but not angry.

'Thank goodness!'

Standing by the smaller crate, its ancient antiques throbbing silently inside me, we saw the plane's hatch close. Mrs Quayle stood there, exchanging forms with Customs folk.

Consul Sommon's worthless items were leaving in style.

'Lovejoy? What happens to these?' She indicated the smaller crate.

'It goes to the countries where the, er, originals were pinched from. As a memento.'

'Oh, Lovejoy! How sweet to think of that!'

'Well,' I said, because it really was kind of me. 'They'd have been so upset, losing their national treasures to that horrible killer, wouldn't they? At least these, er, reproductions are good enough to put on exhibition.'

'That's so charming. And at your own expense!'

'Well, sort of.'

I almost filled up. Except the developing countries would get the originals, and Consul Sommon the fakes. He wouldn't know it, of course, until enraged dealers came stalking him on some dark night, lift aside his office curtains, and just as he was talking on the telephone ...

'Are you all right, Lovejoy?'

'Course I am, silly cow.'

'I'm sorry. You suddenly looked so pale. It must have been a strain, yet you've been so generous.'

'I'm okay.'

'Lovejoy,' she said shyly. 'I've decided to resume Timothy's work. Not insurance,' she added hastily, seeing me wince. 'His photography.' She gave a sad smile. 'It was his hobby. He was very artistic.'

Photography an art? Only maniacs think that pointing a lens and going click! constitutes the artistic expression of a lifetime.

'Timothy's bankruptcy assessors sent back his photographs last night.' I'd heard it come, but had been trying for oblivion, the state my mind was in. 'Two suitcases, negatives and prints.'

'Great,' I said bitterly. More gunge to clutter my little cottage.

The documentation seemed finished at last. Thomasina Quayle and her people came slowly towards us. Distantly, a plane took off doing that roar and sudden tilt. I hate flying, always get a terrible cold for days after. Doctors should study the viruses spread in aeroplanes' air conditioning, but the idle sods don't.

'Can I develop some of Timothy's prints for you, Lovejoy? As a present?' She tried a smile. Still, a start is a start. 'I can take your photographs. The antiques you find. I did all Timothy's developing and printing, right from when he began photographing his insured things.'

A tired retort was almost out when I suddenly thought, hang on. What was she on about?

'Photographs? Of all the antiques Timothy insured? Like what?'

'Well, everything. Old Masters, archaeology, furniture, the contents of mansions being sold up . ..'

Although I've always knocked photography as boringly dull, you have to admit that it is hugely profitable. In antiques, believe it or not. Remember two things. First, is this photograph authentic, and preferably a one-off picture of some notable scene, historical event, sports meeting, Queen Victoria, whatever. Secondly, and vital to those crazed photo collectors, did the long-deceased photographer himself take and print the photo?

There's a great modern photography scandal. It's the horror antique dealers call the Hine Shine.

Lewis Hine was a picture snapper. His photos are the most famous in the entire world, you'll have seen prints of those American workmen having their sandwiches on that unbelievably high girder? The building of the Empire State Building in New York? The legend – it might be no more than that – has it that Mr Hine dangled high in the air to take these snaps. The pictures almost make me dizzy just looking. Poster shops sell them. One original – repeat, original – print is worth a year's idle sloth on the Riviera.

One of those much uglier sepia-coloured prints – supposedly enlarged by Hine himself –

can go for the price of three years' cruising on the grandest ocean liner. Why? Because collectors want them.

For the genuine, developed-by-the-photographer-himself prints, that is.

Copies aren't worth a cent.

Okay, there's no real artistry involved – not as far as I'm concerned anyway – but maniacs will pay a king's ransom for a snap. I'd actually seen these photographs go at Sotheby's and Christie's for tens of thousands. Unbelievable, when you can borrow books of the same photos from the town library for nothing.

Well, that was the situation. Then somebody detected a fault. It's the Hine Shine.

Something seemed wrong with the prints being sold of photos taken by Man Ray and Ansel Adams, whoever those worthies might be. Word was whispered round photo specialists, Those prints might actually be modern reprints. Horror!

Take a photograph. Stick it under a fluoroscope. Old photographs don't shine as much as prints made on new paper. There are books – wholly boring – on the chemistry of obrags (optical brightening agents, OBAs) that came in half a century ago. These chemicals stop modern paper from yellowing quite so quickly. The result is, modern photographic paper fluoresces differently. So if you're going to fake some 'old'

photographs, print them on old rag-pulp printing paper. (Get the rags, incidentally, in bundles of old clothes from second-hand charity shops in every high street, and make your own paper. It's simple, takes a week to do, and you're in business. If you're a crook, that is.)

The tests are easy. The Hitler Diaries succumbed to similar tests, as did the drawings of Eric Hebborn, a forger of Old Master drawings who was a friend of mine and who really was a master faker. And the phoney Shroud of Turin.

All you need is a source of good photographs of the right objects, and somebody to do it. Then you can make a mint. I looked at Florence. Wouldn't it be churlish to refuse her kind offer? And didn't she need a kind friend, help her to get on with her life?

'Thank you, love. That's really kind.' I put my arm round her. 'Darling. I'd love some of Timothy's old pictures. Just as a memento.'

'Oh, Lovejoy. Would you really?' She looked at me. 'You're not saying that just to be kind?'

'No,' I replied truthfully. 'No. I'd really like them.'

'I'll pick his real favourites! He used to think they were quite valuable. I'll have them specially mounted.'

'Lovely.' I walked her to meet Mrs Quayle. 'Incidentally, can you do that nice old-fashioned sepia colouring? Only, my old auntie likes those. She's very sick. If I get some old paper, could you . . .?'

'I'd love to!' she cried, recovering fast. Give a woman a job to do.

'Best say nothing to Mrs Quayle,' I improvised carefully. 'She might think you'd held back some of Timothy's possessions from probate.'

'I wouldn't do such a thing, Lovejoy!'

'I know that, darling.' I held her hands and smiled. 'Just between us.'

Mrs Thomasina Quayle approached. 'That's that. Now we can go. Are you all right, Mrs Giverill?'

'Yes, thank you, Mrs Quayle.'

Women spend half their time asking each other how they are. They never ask the bloke. Ever notice that?