Gold By Gemini

CHAPTER IX

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THAT AFTERNOON I'd never been so famished. Hunger's all right but bad for morale. I combed the cottage for provisions and ended up with a quarter-full tin of powdered milk, a tiny piece of cheese I'd overlooked, one small cooking apple, some limp celery, a bottle of sauce and five grotty teabags. Hardly nosh on the Elizabethan scale. Just as well Henry wasn't due today. He'd have started on the divan. I glanced at my non-edible walnut carriage clock and decided to call on Squaddie. He's always good for a calorie.

First I would cerebrate for a minute or two. This Bexon business was starting to niggle.

I strolled into the garden. On the face of it, you couldn't call it much of a problem. I sat on the garden steps near the budgies' flight, whistling to think better.

An old geezer dies leaving behind a scrawled tale telling how he'd had a holiday and found some ruins or other. A mosaic. And a gold or two, Lovejoy. Don't forget them.

Then he leaves his story in duplicate. Well, big deal. Two nieces explained that. Clearly one booklet each and a funny drawing of Lady Isabella chucked in for luck. From the way Nichole's henchman Rink had behaved none of us knew any more than that. I chuckled at the memory of his absurd threat, making Manton and Wilkinson look round irritably at my whistling's sudden halt. Then I thought of Dandy Jack.

'Sorry, lads,' I told them. 'Just thinking.'

We all resumed, me sitting on the cold stones and the birds trilling on their enclosed branches. Singing makes their chests bulge so they rock about. Ever noticed that? It's a miracle they don't fall off. I expect their feet keep tighter hold on the twigs than you'd think from a casual look.

The problem lay of course in what we were all busy guessing. Nichole's wealthy hero obviously guessed an enormous crock of gold somewhere. Greedy sod. He was already at least a two-Rolls man. Janie guessed I was wasting my time again when I should have been seducing her away from her posh hubby. Dandy Jack was guessing that his Burne-Jones drawing would settle his boozing bills for some time to come, and he was right. Always assuming he got better and those bouncy nurses let him loose.

'Manton.' He looked at me in silence. 'What,' I asked, 'am I guessing? That's the real problem, isn't it?'

They glanced at each other, then back at me. We all thought hard.

'You're right,' I said, got out my rusty old bike and hit the road. I had to pump its front tyre up first, this being the space age.

About three miles from my cottage tidal creeks begin. Low-lying estuaries, woods, sloping green fields, orchards and beautiful undulating countryside blending with the mighty blue ocean and getting on my wick, though not everybody sees sense like I do.

Even though it was quite early a couple of anglers were ruminating on the Infinite along the Goldhammer inlet, and some nut was trying to get the total boredom of the scene on canvas - tomorrow's antique. Or even today's? I pedalled past with a cheery greeting. The artist was pleased and shouted a good day, but the anglers were mad because a bicycle bell warns the fish away. I gave it a couple of extra rings.

Cheered by my day's good turn, I rode out onto the strood.

That's a road sticking out from the shore across a short reach of sea to an island. You can easily pass over when the sea's out but have to wade chest-deep when the tide's in. People who live on these low windswept islands have the times of the tides written out and stuck inside their car doors. Always assuming you have a car, I thought nastily.

There's a lifebelt hung on the wooden railing so you get the message. The North Sea's no pond.

This particular strood's about half a mile long. Three or four boats lay sprawled close to the roadway on the exposed mudflats among reed wisps. A couple of fishing ketches were standing out to sea in the cold light. But the boat I was heading for would never sail again. It came into view halfway across, a blue lifeboat converted for houseboat living and sensibly rammed as far as possible on the highest inlet out of the sea marshes.

Squaddie was in and cooking. I could tell from the grey smoke pouring from the iron stack. I whistled through my fingers. He likes a good warning.

'After some grub, Lovejoy?' his voice quavered from the weatherbeaten cabin. He's getting on.

'Yes. Get it ready,' I yelled back and slung my bicycle among the hawthorns.

He has a double plank with railings sloping from the old towpath to his deck. How lucky I'd called at mealtime. Frying bacon and eggs. He gives me that and some of those malt flakes and powdered milk, my usual once a week.

'Hiyer, Squaddie.'

'Hello, Lovejoy.'

An old geezer can get about a lot even if he's blind. Squaddie used to be our best antique dealer (me excepted) till his eyes gave in. A curious old chap, wise enough for more than me to use as an oracle.

'You're a day early.'

'Not brewed up yet, Squaddie? I'm gasping.'

Squaddie scratched his stubble and listened acutely to the momentary silence between us His sightless rheumy eyes could still move. It was a bit disconcerting in the small cabin, to catch a sudden flash of white sclera from a face sightless five years and more.

I slewed across the tilted floor and sat where I could see to seaward.

'You on to something, Lovejoy?'

I shrugged evasively, remembered in time he couldn't see shrugs and said I wasn't sure.

'Good or bad?'

'Neither.'

He cackled at that and mixed powdered milk.

'It's got to be one or the other,' he corrected, shuffling dextrously from galley to table and laying for me as well. 'Antiques are either lovely and real or imitation and useless.'

'It can be neither,' I said. 'It can be funny.'

'Oh. Like that, eh?'

While we started to nosh I told him about Bexon, the forgery, the lovely Nichole and her pal, Dandy Jack's accident and the diaries. You can't blame me for missing out Janie and the leading details of old Bexon's holiday trip because Squaddie still does the occasional deal. Nothing wrong with being careful.

'How does it sound?' I asked him.

'Rum. Where's the picture?'

'Dandy Jack kept it - after I'd sorted for him.'

He laughed, exposing a row of rotten old teeth.

'Typical. That Dandy.'

'Did you ever hear of Bexon?'

'Aye. Knew him.' He stirred his egg cleverly into a puddle with a bread stick. You couldn't help staring. How does a blind man know exactly where the yolk is? 'Tried to get him to copy a Wright canvas for me. Seascape. He wouldn't.'

'Money?'

'Not on your life.' Squaddie did his odd eye-rolling trick again. Maybe it eases them.

'Bexon was honest.'

'Was he off his rocker?'

'Him? A northern panel bowler?'

That said all. Panel bowlers are nerveless team players on crown bowling greens. They never gamble themselves, but they carry immense sums wagered on them by spectators at every match. You can't do that and be demented.

'When did you see him last, Squaddie?' I could have kicked myself even if it is only a figure of speech. Squaddie didn't seem to notice.

'I forget.' He scraped the waste together and handed it to me to chuck out of the cabin window. 'He was just off somewhere on holiday. Isle of Man, I think.'

'What was he?'

'Trade? Engineer, draughtsman and all that. Local firm.'

'Go on digs?' We suffer a lot from epidemics of amateur archaeologists hereabouts. And professional ones who are much, much worse.

'He wasn't one for hunting Camelot at weekends, if that's what you mean, Lovejoy.' He was laughing as he poured, thick and tarry. Lovely. 'Nieces wouldn't let him. Real firebrands, they are.'

I caught myself thinking, Maybe that explains why Bexon found his hoard on the Isle of Man and not locally. Almost as if I was actually coming to believe his little diaries were a perfectly true record. You have to watch yourself in this game. Persuasion's all very well for others.

We chatted then about antiques in general. He asked after friends, Jimmo, the elegant Patrick, Jenny and Harry Bateman, Big Frank. We talked of prices and who were today's rascals (plenty) and who weren't (very few).

'How's Algernon?' he finally asked me, chuckling evilly. Well he might.

'Bloody horrible.'

'He'll improve, Lovejoy.'

I forgot to tell you Algernon is Squaddie's nephew.

'He won't. Green as the proverbial with the brains of a rocking-horse.'

'He's your bread and butter for the moment, Lovejoy.' It was Squaddie who'd foisted him on to me as soon as I went bust, to make him the world's greatest antique dealer for a few quid a month. Your actual Cro-Magnon. I'd never have taken a trainee in a million years if Squaddie hadn't taken the liberty. It's called friendship. I visit Squaddie weekly to report our complete lack of progress.

'What's he on?'

'Glass. Musical instruments. He doesn't know the difference.'

'You cruel devil, Lovejoy. He'll learn.' That's what blood does for you. You can't spot your own duds.

'He's a right lemon. Should be out earning his keep like a growing lad, van-driving.'

'One day he'll surprise you.'

'Only surprise?' I growled. 'He frightens the frigging daylights out of me.'

'Not need the money any more, Lovejoy?' Squaddie cackled slyly.

I swallowed. 'I'll keep on with him,' I conceded at last. He passed my notes over. I earn every farthing.

'He's got the gift,' Squaddie said determinedly. 'He'll be a divvie like you.'

I sighed heavily and thanked him for the nosh. Before I left I arranged to skip tomorrow's visit. 'Unless,' I added cruelly as a parting salvo, 'Algernon's skills mushroom overnight.'

'They will,' he promised. 'Anyway, good luck with the Roman stuff, Lovejoy.'

'Cheers, Squaddie.' I paused on the gangplank, thinking hard. 'Did you say Roman?' I called back. No answer. I called louder. 'Who said anything about Roman stuff?'

'Didn't you?' he quavered from the cabin. He'd already started washing up.

'Not a word.'

'You mentioned digging, archaeology, Lovejoy. That's Roman.'

'So it is,' I said. Well, it is, isn't it?

But I'd said nothing to young Algernon at the cottage. Nothing could have got back to Squaddie through him. Maybe it was an inspired guess. There are such things, aren't there? We said our farewells all over again, ever so polite.

I got my bicycle. My picture of Bexon was building up: a highly skilled painter, known among a select few old friends in the antiques trade. A good quiet family man. Cool under stress. And honest with it, to boot. Still, I thought, pedalling down the marshes to the strood again in the cutting east wind, nobody's perfect. I started ringing my bicycle bell to warn the fish those two anglers were still bent on murder. The artist waved, grinning. The anglers didn't. Perhaps they thought me unsporting.

I pedalled off the strood on to the mainland. The only difference between cycling and being in Janie's Lagonda is that she's not there to keep saying take your hand off my knee.

Now I had money. Not much, but any at all is more than twice nothing. The trouble is people have to see money, or they start jumping to all sorts of conclusions. This trade's very funny. Reputations matter.

The White Hart was fairly full, everybody talking all at once as usual. I paused for a second, rapturously inhaling the boozeladen smoke and gazing round. Jenny and Harry were huddled close, uptight. I'd heard Jenny was seeing some wealthy bloke on the sly.

Maybe Harry had tumbled, or maybe they'd bounced a deal wrong. Well, antiques occasionally caused difficulties, I snickered to myself. Tinker Dill was there, holding forth against the bar to a cluster of other grubby barkers. I still wonder who'd bought that round. Helen was resting, long of leg and full of curves, on a stool like women with good legs do and gave me a half-smile and a nod. She's always exhaling smoke. She even smokes in bed. (Er, I mean, I suppose she probably does.) Margaret was in, too. I waved. Big Frank wasn't in yet. Patrick was showing off to anyone who cared. Lily gave me a wave. She'd been to a silver sale in Lavenham that day.

'What'll you have, Lily?'

Only Ted the barman didn't eye the money in my hand. He assimilates feelings about solvency by osmosis.

'No. My turn.'

'I insist." I had a pint, Lily a mysterious rum thing. I asked if she'd visited Dandy in hospital.

'I went,' she said. 'Patrick would have, but he's not very… strong.'

'That plump nurse'll hose Dandy down a bit, eh?' I chuckled.

'Lovejoy,' Lily said carefully. 'I don't know if Dandy's going to be, well, all right.'

'Not get better? Dandy Jack?' I smiled at that. 'He's tough as old boots. He'll make it.

Did the Old Bill catch the maniac?'

'Not yet.' Her voice lowered. 'They're saying in the Arcade it looked like -'

'If it was Rink he'll have a hundred alibis.'

The interlude done with, Lily turned to her own greatest problem, who was now lecturing Ted on lipstick. ('That orange range is such a poxy risk, Teddie dear!')

'What am I doing to go, Lovejoy?'

'Give him the sailor's elbow,' I advised.

She gazed at Patrick's blue rinse with endearment. Patrick glanced over, saw us and coo-eed extravagantly.

'Do you like it, Lovejoy?' he shrieked, waggling his fingers.

'Er…?'

'The new nail varnish, dear! Mauve!' He emitted an outraged yelp and turned away.

'Oh, isn't he positively moronic?'

'Would you speak to him, Lovejoy?' Lily begged. She'd made sure nobody was in earshot. 'He treats me like dirt.'

'Chuck him, love.'

'He admires you. He'd listen. He says you're the only proper dealer we've got.'

'That's a laugh.'

'It's true,' she said earnestly. 'He's even been trying to help you. He's been making enquiries about Bexon all afternoon.'

'Eh?'

'For you, Lovejoy.' Lily smiled fondly in Patrick's direction. 'Even though there's nothing in it for him. He went down to Gimbert's.' The auction rooms where Bexon's belongings went. 'One day he'll realize I love him -'

'Does your husband know?' I asked, thinking, since when does an antique dealer do anything for nothing? Even one like Patrick. He used to deal in goldsmithy till that gold price business ten years ago, antique gold.

'Not yet,' she admitted. 'When I'm sure of Patrick I'll explain. He'll understand.'

'It's more than I do,' I said. 'Look, love. Can't you see that Patrick's - er -?'

'It's a phase,' she countered. 'Only a phase.'

Jill Jenkins made her entrance, a nimble fortyish. She's mediaeval, early mechanicals, toys, manuscripts and dress items. I like her because she's good, really as expert as any dealer we have locally. Not a divvie, just an expert. I'd never seen her boy-friend before, but then I'd never seen any of Jill's boy-friends before. They all look the same to me. Only the names change, about once every twelve hours. Tinker Dill once told me he can tell the new ones by their ear lobes. Jill picks them up on the harbour wharf.

Our port can just about keep pace with Jill's appetite as long as one of our estuary fogs doesn't hold the ships up. Her husband has this farm in Stirling, very big on agriculture.

Well, whatever turns you on, but there are some rum marital arrangements about these days.

'Lovejoy! My poppet!' I got a yard of rubberoid lips and a waft of expensive perfume.

'And Lily too! How nice!' she added absently, glancing round with the occasional yoo-hoo and finger flutter.

'Hiyer, Jill.'

'This is…' she started an introduction. 'What is it, darling?'

'Richard,' the lad said. 'Rum and blackcurrant.'

'Richard,' Jill said, pleased somebody had remembered. 'That's it. He's left his boat down in the water.'

'How very wise,' Lily said sweetly, moving away. 'Now he'll know where to find it, won't he?'

'Ship,' Richard said sourly. 'Not boat. Ship.'

'I hear,' Jill said, taking my arm and coming too close, 'Lovejoy's roamin' after Roman.'

She has a beautiful Egyptian scarab brooch, genuine. My bell clamoured.

'Roman stuff?' I said calmly. 'Whoever told you that?'

'Big Frank,' she admitted, not batting any one of her false eyelashes. 'And that whore Jenny Bateman.' She caught Jenny's eye the same instant and trilled a greeting through the saloon. The Batemans waved.

Ted fetched Richard's drink. Jill always has ginger wine. They allow Jill's drinks on the slate. For some reason they don't trust the rest of us.

'Lily just said that,' I said. 'Funny how things get about.'

'Any special Roman stuff, dear?'

'Must have been a misunderstanding, Jill,' I replied. I was distinctly uncomfortable.

'Did Popplewell help you clear it up?' she asked roguishly.

'I was only doing a routine call at the Castle,' I said.

'If you've the money,' she said, suddenly businesslike, 'I've some Roman bronze statuary. No gold coins, though. What time're you due back, William?'

'Couple of hours. And it's Richard.'

'That'll give us just long enough. Then I'll run you back to your boat.'

'Ship,' I said for him, got another moist plonk from Jill's mouth and escaped.