The Possessions of a Lady (16 page)

From the withdrawing-room I entered the long hall.

'Wotcher, Lovejoy.' Tubb pulled me forward. 'Never stop in a
doorway. It causes earthquakes.'

'How. . . ?' I didn't complete the question. He'd bribed the old
wrinkle-faced information man at the station, then simply phoned round the
Norfolk dealers promising a few quid to reveal what sales I asked about. No
wonder Chessmate had dropped by—he was just collecting his thirty pieces of
silver.

'Tubb,' I said wearily. 'Leave me be. D'you hear?'

He beamed, not taking a blind bit of notice. 'What d'you reckon of
this? Seventeenth century?' He poked a pipe, carved as a naked woman in an
erotic posture. 'You stuff tobacco into her head—it's the bowl, see? And you
suck . . .'

'Ta, Tubb, but it's not that old.'

Meerschaum, 'sea foam,' is a clayey silicate of magnesium,
supposedly minuscule marine creatures plonked down by a retreating Ice Age.
Turkey was the main supplier. But until Count Andrassey took a chunk to Karl
Kowates a mere 200 years back to make the first meerschaum pipe, there was
really no such item. By a historical fluke, Mr. Kowates was a Budapest cobbler,
his hands leathered from years of shoe polish. That prototype meerschaum pipe
became a mustardy-gold. The meerschaum pipe was born.

'What d'you reckon it's worth?' Tubb trumpetted.

Deafening secrecy. I turned quickly, to see at least seven dealers
suddenly spin away and pretend frozen interest in furniture, mirrors, rugs.
They were following me. I'd been sussed as a divvy. Or had Chessmate sold the
news?

The edgy middle-aged woman wasn't making it easier. She was homely
tweedy with round features. Heaven knows why she was traipsing after me. I
stabbed a warning finger at Tubb, and drifted on.

I started taking notice, blood boiling.

There are ways of 'breading' the stock, as dealers say. Just as
anglers throw bread bait into pools, antique dealers go about making
disparaging remarks to improve their buying chances. Like, 'Here, Fred. Look at
this!' Snide laughter. 'Think they'll get a fortune for it? Never seen worse!'
Chuckle, chuckle.

This, note, for a beautifully chased American silver table-water
jug. It stood tall on a table, waiting to go to the marquee. From a distance it
looked warty, with such high relief engraving it hardly seemed shiny at all.
Experts, that talkative lot, say always trust that 1850s-1860s Yank silver with
such prominent chasing. Well, time races on, so look at the engraved picture.
Flowers, country churches, churchyards, with the church looking as if it's
trying to appear English
and not quite
making it
is the best tip. The marks, of course, you can look up. Americans
think little of their own antiques, yet pay fortunes for our dross. Beats me.

Ignoring the dealers with difficulty, I drifted on, followed by a
straggle of seemingly indifferent dealers. They even took notes, lot numbers
that I couldn't help smiling at. Despite my growing anger, I found myself
talking to one or two antiques. You have to be polite. Some furnishings were
beautiful.

There was a lovely mantel clock. It didn't look like one at first
sight, being marble and porcelain. It was a mourning figure leaning over an urn
on a plinth. She was draped, Greekish, exquisite. No more Ancient Greece than
you or I, but some skilled artisan had copied from the London maker Benjamin
Vulliamy's pattern. The two rims, where the urn and lid meet, rotate. They're
numbered—usually Roman numerals below, ordinary above. A snake, twining
horribly up the urn, leans over to point the time with its tongue. Grimly
funereal, but see a genuine one like Lady Lever's at Port Sunlight and you'd
sell your granny for it.

Admittedly a Regency fake, but that only made it genuine to me, if
you follow. Some poor, yet immeasurably skilled, craftsmen in Georgian London
must have seen Vulliamy's original, and copied every brilliant detail in their workshop
dungeons. Find me the bloke who can do that today—please. I blinked my admiring
eyes.

And heard a clink.

In a mirror—modern wall glass, so ignorable—I saw an overcoated
bloke, moustache, homburg hat, pocket a small something, the pig. I heard a snigger.

The sorrowing maid's heel was missing.

For about a second, or hours, I stood trying to shake my fury.
He'd deliberately chipped the heel. Soon he would loudly point out that the
clock was damaged, virtually worthless. Then at the auction he'd buy it for a
song, restore it using the heel he'd nicked, and sell it for a fortune as
complete. Some dealers carry brass tools to inflict this destruction. I
swallowed my rage. They don't think of the antique, just greed. Tonight this
elegant lout in his bloody homburg would brag how he'd fooled everybody, looted
himself a mint.

'Sorry, love,' I said mentally to the now-damaged leaning marble
figure. She'd been perfect for a couple of centuries.

'Beg pardon?' somebody said.

'Nothing.' I must have spoken aloud. I'd have to watch that.

Poor Benjamin Vulliamy. He passed on his love of clocks to his son
Benjamin Louis who in 1820 invented a clever dead beat escapement—the clamped
pallets can be adjusted. It caught on among Continental makers, not much here.
But, honest to God, what must Ben be thinking, watching our rotten antics from
his cloud?

From then on, I got angrier.

The auctioneers' whifflers—think bribable scene-shifters— were in
on the scams, as usual. You could see the money passing as the dealers filched
openly and laughed about it. I saw a shabby bloke nick a nail file from an etui
and blatantly do his nails with it as he strolled. Dealers don't steal like
this simply to sell. They steal so they can go to the eventual successful
bidder and offer to make up the etui's complete set of manicure implements. The
bidder's glad to buy, because he'll have paid much less in the auction for the
incomplete George the Second lady's gold-mounted manicure case. The whiffler
who doesn't work this scam has yet to be born. Such thieves are called
'toppers' in the trade, and form an elite clan where sleight-of-hand rules.
(Don't laugh—these sly tricks will be played out on every single one of your
own possessions sooner or later.)

Stifling rage, I went upstairs. By now I was judging faces,
appearances, remembering the rogues. I listened for names. There was Pill,
Duddo, a pretty woman in green called Gelina, a sour-faced hulk they all seemed
to know called Calleon, and Mr. Skanner, who was Homburg himself.

Skanner was particularly busy. I went by as he inspected a
three-foot bronze. Even though it was a fake, I felt instant fondness for this
Nubian bust. Cordier's original was nineteenth-century. There ought to be two,
African 'noble savage' images of the Victorians, man and woman. A genuine pair
would buy a Kensington house. The female is striking, imperious with her
downward glance. Once seen, never forgotten. They're forged the world over now,
best from Turkey, Taiwan, Italy. This was an early fake.

'Is it marked?' I asked innocently.

'Yes. The famous Cordier.' Skanner chuckled loudly. 'A gooseberry
trying to be a grape!'

And the bastard actually scraped the figurine's shoulder with a
file. He wore gloves, a common trick, his file hidden in the middle finger.
He'd have a second one along the ring finger, always on the preferred hand. He
then had the gall to inspect the scratch he'd made, using a loupe, ten times
magnification. I wagged my head to show how I admired the rotten pig, and oafed
about, bedroom to landing, staircase to kitchen, raising my eyebrows, sharing
in the general ribaldry.

Sometimes, human beings make me wonder what we think we are
actually doing. If you stand before anyone on earth— the most powerful
dictator, the seductive woman—and laugh at their wisecracks, you're a friend
for life. The thickest nerk to the proudest emperor wants to be liked. Some
comedian once said there were only six jokes; the rest is winning approval. Yet
we all crave admiration, somebody to laugh when we trot our tired old six. We
know that the person who laughs truly admires us, thinks we're great.

Which itself is a laugh. I mean, Skanner in his posh handmades
does the old scag trick on a bronze bust and positively swells with pride when I,
a passing tramp, grin at his cleverness. I almost puked. Hate edges you close
to murder, a frightening thought.

To stay calm I started looking for honest collectors among the
growing crowd. I found one or two examining a box of old toys. Nowadays,
they're all after an uninteresting tiny aluminium triangular R.A.F. V-Bomber
that Dinky made in 1955-6, in its dull little box. It will virtually buy you
the town hall. (The No. 992 AvroVulcan, just in case you do come across it,
wears the number 749. God knows why.) Not even an antique, mind-bendingly dull,
yet you can retire on it. That's collecting, money mad. It's not reasonable,
like antiques. Those Chelsea porcelain 'masqueraders', two little 1760s figures
holding masks, bring the same price as any small Art Deco by a named maker. And
that endlessly copied Art Deco lady, so shapely between two borzoi dogs on her
onyx base, made by D. H. Chiparus in bronze and ivory, will fetch seven or
eight times as much. There's no accounting for money, and that's the truth. The
Chiparus craze took off like a rocket when, inexplicably, pop stars started
buying them sight unseen. Collecting's like shooting an arrow into a rotting
orchard and hoping you'll hit the one good apple. Madness, because . . .

'Excuse me, please. Can I have a word?'

The flustered lady, never far from sight.

'Are you security, missus?'

'No. Yes. I mean, not really.'

Was that a negative? 'What about?'

'Please.' She wrung her hands. I realised that she'd chosen her
moment. There was nobody else near, by some miracle, though I could hear them
all breading away, such merriment. 'Could we come to some arrangement? I'd make
it worth your while.'

Me? I looked. Did she mean me? 'Are you a punter?'

'A . . . ?' Her brow cleared, we had contact. 'No. I'm . . .' She
took a run at it, launched. 'The vendor.' Like she'd just learned the word.

'The vendor?' I said, amazed, then went red. 'Sorry. Rude of me.'

She spoke bitterly. 'You mean why is a worn-out frump selling off
a mansion?'

'Sorry, missus. I've had a long day.' It was not noon. The auction
was two o'clock. 'What can I do?'

'Please. This way.'

Leading off the spacious landing was an oak door. Only Japanese or
American heartwood, as most of the nineteenth century, but honest wood's a
rarity. These modern kiln-dried days leave a nasty tenth of moisture in wood,
to warp and crack as soon as you turn your back.

'There's a place here. Do sit.'

An alcove, such as servants used attending on the mistress's
summons. Two small cushioned stools, modern junk. I sat obediently.

'Arrangement, missus?' Was she her ladyship?

She disposed herself, knees together, blue eyes apprehensive. Less
frantic, she'd be more attractive.

'Would you take your gang away, please?'

Gang? I stared. I'm only me. In a flash, my brain screamed
Quick! Exploit!

'Gang?' I'm pathetic. 'There's only me. Lovejoy.'

'Please don't. I'm not altogether stupid. They hang on your every
look.'

To somebody innocent, it might actually look as if I was leader of
a wolfpack.

'Er, seeing you've realised, missus, what arrangement were you
thinking of?'

'I'll give you a fifth of the profits,' I heard her say. 'But you
must leave the auction in peace.'

'Fifth?' I said, stunned.

'Quarter, then.' Her bottom lip trembled, driving a really tough
bargain with a master criminal. 'It's my last offer.' Straight out of the
poorer grade of 1950s black-and-white rep-actor films. 'As soon as I get the
auctioneers' accounts.'

She had as much chance of seeing honest accounts from this
shambles as I had of making cardinal. I know auctioneers who compete, see who
can falsify most each week. They actually bet on the result. I've been going to
auctions since I was born, and I've never seen an honest one yet.

This malarkey was getting out of hand. 'You don't live here?'

She relaxed and actually said thank you. 'This house is my
sister's. A widow, passed away recently. No children. I'm to dispose of
everything.' She peered about our alcove. Answers were everywhere, could she
but see.

'I might, love,' I lied, but I'd have to leave her to her fate. I
had my job to do, Tinker's missing relative, get my life back on the rails.
After all, I told myself righteously, this was a diversion. I'd only come to
celebrate recovering my non-counterfeit owings from Tee Vee.

'It's kind of you.' She smiled, minuscule. It took twenty years
off her. 'I ran a fish-and-chip shop.'

'A chippy?'

'In London. This country area is so . . . remote.'

My feelings warmed. Anyone who mistrusts countryside deserves
help. And chip shops sometimes keep me alive.

'I'm like that, love. I love a town.' I smiled back. One born
every minute, usually me.