The Possessions of a Lady (17 page)

'You know how I feel, Lovejoy.' She sighed. 'Kate's death duties
are huge.' She looked wistful. 'Do you know what I want?'

Did another gangster-type deal loom? I hadn't escaped her first
one yet. 'No?'

Her eyes went larger still. 'Have my chip shop voted the best in
the whole kingdom. Can you imagine anything better, Lovejoy?'

Ten billion things, actually. Clearly a nutter.

For aristocrats and strangers, I ought to explain that a chip shop,
whether it calls itself a Fried Fish Emporium or Joe's Chippie, is basically a
grub take-away. There's a counter. You queue. Servers fry fish, chips, cook
mushy peas. Salted and vinegared in newspaper (trad) or grease-proof (posh),
you scoff them on the hoof. There's no better food. The poor man's nosh, it
flourishes defiantly on. They sell burgers nowadays, curries, vegan fry-ups. I
didn't know there was a world ranking. Like cricket?

'Toffs, of Muswell Hill.' She spoke with envy. 'They have it in
their window,
Voted The Best In The
Kingdom
. Like the peerage, Lovejoy!'

A woman after my own heart. Anyone who spoke in such hallowed
tones deserved a smile from Dame Fortune instead of that goddess's usual nasty
smirk.

'Deal,' I said before I could think. My belly rumbled in total
agreement. 'I'll help. But first, a gypsy's warning. Listen, okay?'

Sitting there, I told her about The Case.

It's mostly boring, so skip it if you have strong ideas about
honesty. If you read on, don't blame me.

Antique dealers call it The Case. Some years ago, a lady in
Switzerland bought an Egon Schiele painting. Call her Marie, protect the
innocent. She was so lovely it makes you wonder why she collected art at all,
having herself to look at. But collect art she did.

To a famous London auctioneer (phew! Almost said Christies. Narrow
escape from litigation, eh?) Marie paid half a million. Add the auctioneer's
repellent . . . (fill in the dots with any horrible adjective) 'buyer's
premium' and it becomes even less trivial. Still, where's the problem? Lovely
lady buys painting, we can go rejoicing and brew up.

But suspicion raised its head. Was it
really
by Egon Schiele? The alluring lady sued. London's lawyers
girded.

The Case hung on this: the painting was original, yeah verily by
Schiele. But some 94 per cent of it had been over-painted, and the famous Egon
Schiele monogram ES added. The auctioneer's lawyers wept that honestly they'd
honestly been honest, because the painting underneath was by Schiele, see? So
it must still be, see? And bonny lady was simply too cruel saying it was wrong
to flog her an overpainted daub, see?

The pretty lady's mob didn't see, not they. Stone of heart, they
glared across the High Court. What bloody good's (I'm paraphrasing) a painting
that you can only love six per cent of? They howled,
Make them give our lady her money back, m 'lord!

Now you and I, being pure, might believe auctioneers' catalogues.
Auctioneers, however, have a nasty habit of welshing when accused of falsehood
or mistake. So never mind the auctioneers' posh London address. Don't believe a
word. An antiques auction's the only place where you can buy a cabbage,
discover that you've in fact bought a rotting melon, ask for you money back and
get told to sod off.

Enter the famous Clause Eleven, which releases auctioneers from
responsibility. It says they've no real interest in their own honesty. Sorry
about the italics, but I fume about it. You'd see how interested auctioneers
are in honesty if you paid them in counterfeit money. Even the High Court saw
the problem. The judge was especially baffled about the iniquitous premium that
the auctioneers charge. Charging for zilch is what I call cheating, robbery,
interfering with Magna Carta and weather and pinching toffees from infants. I
hope they sue. I used to know a posh bloke whose vintage car was stolen by a
friend. This fine gentleman drew himself up, shot his hand-stitched Bond Street
cuffs, and said quietly, 'The cad.' That's real education, the sort I've never
had. I have to resort to mere abuse, not half as good. In that single word,
generations of breeding registered utter contempt. I wince just to think of it,
and it wasn't even me who nicked his motor.

By some miracle of mismanagement, the High Court got it right.
Marie won, could return the Schiele, get her money back plus interest. The
morning the news broke I danced with delight. But the sombre fact remains.
'Auctioneer' means don't believe everything you read. It might be wrong. It
might be right. But it might be wrong right, or right wrong.

Time to cool down.

'How terrible!' she said, not quite overcome by the tale. 'But my
auctioneer is reliable, Lovejoy. He used to play golf with Kate's husband.'

'Oh, good.' She hadn't heeded a word I'd said. I could do no more.
Time to scarper.

'Right, love. I've to see a pal nearby. Watch Kate's furnishings,
okay?'

‘I promise, Lovejoy.' She coloured some more. 'Briony.'

'Eh?' I halted, narked. Just when I'd escaped. 'What's Briony?'
Some sort of daffodil?

'Me. I'm Briony. Briony Finch.'

'Oh.' She was so vulnerable I had a last try. 'One thing, love.
You should have auto-cameras rigged up. Your stuffs being nicked right, left
and centre.'

'Stolen?' she said. 'It can't be. It's all marked.'

See what honesty's up against? 'Use your eyes, silly cow,' I said,
narked.

'Of all the. . . !'

Outrage leaves me cold. I'd myself to think of, explanations to
find. I collared a lucky taxi at the gate, feeling let out of school, and went
the dozen miles to the ultimate antiques gossip.

14

Florsston Valeece was in his outhouse, complaining about the cold.
Nicola is demure, worried, and petite. She left her husband for this
apparition.

'You're worse than a bird,' I said conversationally from his
doorway.

'It's chilly and wet, Lovejoy.' Florsston didn't bother to look
up. I'd not seen him for years. 'I hate damp. Why doesn't somebody tow this
kingdom to the Med?'

'Lovejoy!' Nicola exclaimed, coming to buss me. She's always
delighted, except when telling you how she's getting on with Florsston.

'Florssie. What's the game?'

That drew a shrewd glance. 'What've you heard?'

Florsston Valeece was a giant in every direction, so immense that
you stop thinking of him as fat at all. He's just that shape. We have
euphemisms for whale size: large, well-built. Daft, really, because fat's fat.
Beside him, Nicola was a pretty sparrow. The outhouse held racks and stacks of
material.

'Nothing, Florssie. I'm worried. What's pulled the money lately?'

'In antiques?' He was playing for time.

'If I'd a problem with machinery, Florssie, I'd have gone to a wheelwright.'
I walked down his workplace. 'How many different stuffs you got?'

Every inch was cleverly used. Display panels, hinge frames,
rolling shelving on welded rails. No wonder he was the best paid materials man
in the Eastern Hundreds.

'Eight thousand, not counting solids. Solids means woods, metals,
elements for alloys. Solvents and the like are spoken of with contempt:
"chemicals". You duffed up Tee Vee, Lovejoy. Very uncalled for.'

'He paid me in wad, not wadge. Doesn't do, Florssie.'

'We aren't married yet, Lovejoy,' Nicola said, as if that had been
the sole topic so far.

'Congratulations for the happy day,' I responded.

Florsston's eyes brightened. 'All my life I've loved stuff,
Lovejoy.' He sounded wistful. Nicola smiled fondly, recognising his monologue.
'It's mankind's rampart against war, the . . .'

. . . miraculous
conviction that Man can create just as God can. Material — down to the cheapest
linen — is a living substance made in our own image. It excels empires, the
Stock Exchange, and proves . . .

'That we too are gods,' I finished with him.

He wiped his eyes on the handkerchief Nicola passed. I always
wonder when I see this couple. To me, she was wasting her time, or maybe that's
what women do? He was examining a cloth fragment with a complex binocular microscope.

'Robes,' he said, misty with rapture. 'Doesn't the name sing?' He
snapped at Nicola, who instantly whipped out a notebook, 'Tell her it's robe,
printed twill cotton, of course.' He looked at me, dreamy. 'They were made from
sixty-foursquare printing cloth for wraps, mostly Cashmere effects. From the
Edwardians on, they became furniture coverings and curtains.'

'Sounds brilliant.' He talks like this for hours. I've heard him.
'What's on, Florsston?'

'Zephyrs.' He was still dreamy. 'That's a lovely old fine-cotton.
I like astrakhan. It's got a fleecy look. All that uncut pile, Lovejoy. And
people actually prefer plastic. Can you credit it?'

'No,' I said, because I couldn't.

'What's lovelier than an embossed velveteen? And I
do
mean cotton, Lovejoy!' He pointed to
his great stacks. 'I've stuff there to melt your heart. Get me a drink.'

I'd almost turned to obey before realising he meant Nicola.

She shot out with an apologetic bleat. He checked that she'd gone.

'There's a fashion scam in the north, Lovejoy. Arranged from here
in East Anglia. You ever hear the like, tail wagging the dog? It's being funded
by somebody who died half a million years gone.'

'I've heard.' I hadn't, but why admit ignorance?

'That Thekla's scouring the earth, wants you back. And there's big
money in, for nothing.'

That stumped me. Money, pouring for no reason? 'Money is always
for something, Florssie.' I asked cautiously, 'Who in the north? Where?'

He said, 'I know what you're asking, Lovejoy. Nobody's defaulted
on payment for my invaluable services in identifying antique fabrics. And
nobody's hired me for the northern job either. But Spoolie dropped by this
morning, asking if you'd been here. He'd just come from Thornelthwaite. It's a
mansion house viewing. Said you'd not turned up on time.'

Well, I thought, antique dealers' paths do cross sometimes. I'd
have to contact Spoolie.

'Ta. I'm obliged.' Nervy now, I paused. 'Florssie. I might need
you for a special, okay?'

He thought. 'Would you take Nicola off my back?'

'Eh?' I went blank. I couldn't imagine anything better than having
Nicola on my back. 'Er . . . ?'

He sighed, woebegone. 'I'm no het, Lovejoy, never will be. She knows
it, but is obsessed with the challenge of curing me.' He winced, indignant.
'Doesn't she think I've tried— well, maybe
wondered
?
I keep telling her to get lost.'

'And me do what with her?' I asked, worried.

His eyes closed in horror. 'I can't
begin
to imagine, Lovejoy. I thought you'd
know!
’

'Silly sod. I meant, what then?'

He grew wistful. 'In the olden days you could sell a woman, even a
wife, in any tavern.'

Nicola returned carrying a tray, whisky, ice. I got none. Florsston
has a terror of people spilling booze in his workshop.

'Who's that work for?' I asked.

'Carmel. She's selling might and main lately.'

'Well,' I said, heart in my boots from panic, 'everybody raises
cash.'

'Seems so.' Massively he slurped his drink, held the glass out to
Nicola for a refill. 'Don't be late at Thornelthwaite, Lovejoy. There's word
that stealing from the viewing there's as easy as scrumping apples.'

T heard that,' I said, casual. 'Cheers, Florsston.'

He wouldn't let me go. 'Is it a deal, then?'

'Eh?' I eyed Nicola as she poured him another drink. What choice
had I? I might need his expertise. And my agreement might turn out to be a lie.
I sometimes find that. 'Oh, sure.'

'Thank you, Lovejoy,' he said fervently. 'I'll do you a grand job.
I pay in full. Agreed?'

'Agreed.'

The taxi found me a roadside nosh bar in a discarded cattle wagon.
It had a clientele of lorry drivers, cow men, and dogs. I hired a driver's hand
phone, collected quite an interested audience as I struggled to find help, cursing
under my breath.

Sometimes I think I must be on another planet. Then common sense
takes hold and I know I'm on another planet. It's women who straighten me out,
even crooks.

Take a look at the news, I thought, phoning away. Any day of the
week, there's things you could never invent. Pick any three items. Do you get
sanity? All news is completely mad. Today's random three: a special discount is
announced, on giant hissing cockroaches, everybody's favourite pet. Next,
astrophysicists admit that they've 'lost'—their word—nine-tenths of the
universe. Third snippet: some loon's taking on Parliament for ignoring some
ancient law that fines you for jumping a bus queue. They're true, just this
morning's lunacy. News is the reason I live in antiques, even if it's daft and
dangerous.