The Possessions of a Lady (22 page)

'And you got the rice right!' I said, whaling in.

'He's nothing but trouble, this one,' Mrs. Treadwell told Briony.
'Likely to get worse.'

'She's trying to marry us off, Briony,' I said. 'Watch her.
Haven't you proper bread, Treadwell?'

The old lady clipped my ear. She'd made a lovely batch of flour
cakes and loaves, still warm. She sat to watch me eat, as if seeing me gorge
somehow filled her. I was full afterwards, first time for days. I told Mrs.
Treadwell she was learning, and told Briony to take her on the staff. We
bickered. Then Mrs. Treadwell got reminiscing, the old days when there were
cinema parties for London folk at the mansion and all was gaiety. Film folk
were such nice people. Aye, I thought, listening dozily, tell Nanook's ghost.

19

It comes down to money,' I told Briony Finch next morning, getting
ready to go, and I was explaining what would happen. The day dawned cold,
bright.

'It shouldn't,' Briony said, wistful.

'Nothing should,' Mrs. Treadwell said. 'More, Lovejoy?'

She'd chopped coddled eggs up in a cup. I'd thought the art had
died out when I was little.

'Ta. Look, Wanda will empty Thornelthwaite. They'll give you a
list—furniture, everything down to the last cufflink. Don't worry,' I put in
quickly as Briony made to interrupt. 'Wanda is trustworthy. I've said she can
shell five per cent.'

'Shell?'

'Steal from the accounts,' I explained patiently. 'Anything more,
I'll be cross. Bertie, her numbers man, will render the sale figures two days
before
the auction.' I grinned, pleased.
'Auctions don't usually end so neatly!'

They looked. 'End?' Briony gave Mrs. Treadwell a glance, comparing
bafflement. 'Sale figures before the auction?'

'Of course.' I sighed. 'It's called a jumper—no, love,' I
interposed as they drew breath, 'a jumper
auction
.
Wanda'll give the summary to you, because I'm going. You can have it checked.
It gives prices a bad name.' Translating every inch was giving me a headache.
'Here. An example.'

The small wooden case I took out was walnut, banded, very like
some homemade cigarette case, 'C.C marked on the outside. You wouldn't give it
half a glance. I opened it. A tiny abacus lay within, polished ebony beads on
metal rods.

Mrs. Treadwell accused, 'That's Mrs. Kate's knitting counter. Why
isn't it with the other things?'

'Because it's valuable, love.' I opened my palms, like a conjuror
about to con the public by his Positively no deception! 'Positively no
deception. Antiques give money a bad name, and vicky versy. I lifted this from
the living-room to stop it being stolen. They were nicking everything not
nailed down. In future, lock up every small thing. They are the first things
that strangers steal.'

Briony cried, 'But it would look as if we didn't trust people!'

'Isn't it terrible?' I said, dry.

'Valuable?' Briony was curious.

'It's two years' rent on a shop, love. Clockmakers Company of
London.' On the inside of the case was pasted a paper, instructions in old
copperplate. 'The maker's name will be somewhere. Take it.'

'Why didn't you steal it, Lovejoy?' Briony asked. 'Bertie said you
were a cheap thief. Who,' she added nervously, 'kills people.' She went lamely
on, 'Please don't think I'm being critical.'

'Jealousy, love. They're all like that.'

'It's being psychic,' Mrs. Treadwell said comfortably. 'People are
jealous.'

'Will you shut your tripe!' I yelled, losing my rag. 'Stop batting
your gums, you silly old trout! Psychery's quackery!'

'Your eggs, Lovejoy.' Unabashed, she plonked a cup in front of me.
'Don't feel bad about your third eye. Just take care.'

See? Women and children take not a blind bit of notice. Some
blokes I know can frighten people with a glance. Me, women just shake their
heads smiling. Nothing I can do, except pretend they're thick. I addressed
Briony.

'Wanda knows I have a notion of what your furniture and movables
should bring. She'll give you a list, with money totalled, before the auction.
Post-dated, see?'

'No, dear.'

Headaches have no business coming. It's not fair.

'Can you imagine any better guarantee,' I said, eyes closed, 'than
reporting that this made a thousand quid before it'd been sold?' I patted her hand,
the one with the abacus. It must date from our Great Civil War period, if not
earlier. It had broken my heart to hand it back. But Briony Finch, would-be
proprietress of the kingdom's Number One fish-and-chip shop, would have been a
lamb to the slaughter. And I'd got back on Wanda's good side, assuming.

'Guarantee?'

'It's Wanda's written promise, love. That she'll obtain at least
those prices for you. Anything above, Wanda splits fifty-fifty with you.
Anything less, Wanda will have to make up.'

'Jumper sale.' Briony repeated it, learning.

'That's it. Not many antique dealers will do one.'

'They might lose a lot of money?'

'Got it! Mrs. Treadwell? Have you any bread organised?' I didn't
smile. She came with a mound of cut bread and butter, touched my head like she
forgave me.

'Wanda,' Briony said. 'Why so willing to take risks, for me?'

'They'll make a fortune, love.' I noshed fast. I hate being asked
for my motives. Motives can't explain murder or honesty.

'Or lose heavily, Lovejoy?' Briony said slowly.

'That's their business. I can't help inefficiency.' Quickly I made
sandwiches of what I hadn't finished, and bussed the pair of them. 'See you.
Better get on. I'll phone.'

'Lovejoy.' Briony came with me. Mrs. Treadwell stood watching. I
made the top of the front balustrade, but I'd guessed right. A police car was
coming in the gate. I drew back. 'Won't you stay until it's all done with?'

'No, ta, love. I wasn't here, okay?'

Her mind clicked into gear. Her eyes widened. 'You want me to lie
to the police?'

'Aye, love. I'm in trouble if you don't.' I scooted out of the kitchen
door, past Mrs. Treadwell, bared across the walled garden and into the field
beyond.

There was an ancient trackway between hedgerows. After a furlong,
it opened into a lane. Marks in mud showed where a motor had waited one drizzly
day.

After ten minutes of plodding, I got a lift from a horse-drawn
cart. For seven miles the driver narrated the problems of cattle feed. I went,
'Mmrnmh,' because where's the difficulty? Cows eat grass. I've seen them at it,
fini.

The city hadn't changed much, but I had. I phoned Roger Boxgrove,
reported semi-truths to his answer-phone. I'd been hoodwinked too long. I was
sick of being mucked about. I suppose losing the abacus did it, but I wanted to
kill somebody for treating me like a fool.

‘
Spoolie?'

He was edgy, his voice squeaking high.
 
‘Lovejoy?’

"Me, Spoolie.' Should I ask cryptically if he was being
hounded, or what? But not only Wanda has technology. We might be bugged. 'Any
news? I'm in a hurry.' I opted for falsehood, the way one does. I'm after a
different antique, er . . .' I invented, rollercoaster, 'I don't want to waste
any more time on that model.'

'Honest?’ Then he gasped. My worried mind noticed that he reacted
with eagerness to my fantastic lie
then
gasped. As if he'd been reminded by a blow.

'Aye, Spoolie.'

Silence. Somebody'd cupped the receiver. He came on, panicky
casual.

'Lovejoy? The Maerklin model's in Brum. I know where she took it.
Meet you there?'

'Why can't you tell me now, Spoolie-''

'The vendor's shrewd, Lovejoy. Won't let me say.' heart was
banging. Poor Spoolie.

'Tonight, Lovejoy? Station?' The line went dead. Then, 'Not the
International Centre one, the other. Tennish?'

'Okay, Spoolie.' Sickened, I put the phone down. I almost said
farewell. I hadn't told Spoolie the maker's name, but somebody else had. And he
couldn't find a Maerklin with a map.

I phoned Briony Finch, told her I'd ring from Birmingham station
after ten o'clock. Then I gulped my egg butties, grumbling because there were
only three. Birmingham, ten o'clock on a cold frosty night? Some hopes,
Spoolie, I thought. I needed a car. I went and bought some cheese rolls, hoping
they weren't sogged to extinction with mayonnaise. I got a taxi to take me to
Sleek's village. Seven miles, and thirteen quid. Is it any wonder nobody goes
to Norfolk?

She was pretty. Grief filled my heart. Everybody's got a gorgeous
bird but me. I smiled, hoping I'd done my teeth.

'Hello!' I said. 'Mr. Sleek in? Sorry I'm late.'

'He isn't back. Have you an appointment?'

Appointment? To see a card sharp? God Almighty. You'll need an
appointment to go to the loo next.

'Yes. His motor. Rejuvenation time again!' I was poisonously
jovial. I'd have liked to have been sincere with her, but I was scared Sleekie
would hove up. 'The new car wax is in! We have it ready at the . . .' Christ,
what was a car polisher's garage called? I invented, 'At Car Cosmetics, Inc.
The wax starts going off after thirty minutes. Can I have the keys, please? The
usual place?'

'You came by taxi.' She was doubtful. 'From a garage?'

That narked me. Why women don't trust anybody is beyond me. As if
they're on the lookout for deception. Here I was, a hard-working car restorer,
come all the way to this one-dog hamlet just to polish her bloke's motor, and
she mistrusts me. How did saints manage?

'Even I can't drive two cars at once!' I laughed merrily, but
could have strangled her. Would you believe it, but still she stood there,
doubting away.

'Sleekie's very particular . . .'

'Of course!' I said soberly. 'Security is everything with these
old Braithwaites. Did he see to the hand throttle?' I frowned accusingly. Women
love to deny an accusation, clear themselves.

Her brow cleared. I knew its name. 'Oh, he's always out there!'

'Good, good.' I smiled, glanced at her quaint little floral
village, a scene of stuporous dullness. 'Sleekie has all the luck. Lovely
cottage, lovely motor, and beautiful . . .' I tried to blush, but they never
come when you want. ‘I only wish I was half so lucky.'

No ring on her finger. She followed me, noting my look.

'I've still a chance!' We laughed a merry laugh. 'Will you be here
when I return the car, er . . . ?'

'Ruby.' She undid the garage padlock, swung back one leaf of the
door and darted inside, tapped some alarm control. The gleaming roadster was in
racing green. 'It's . . . ?'

Oh, hell. 'Me?' I paused to look into her eyes. How do blokes like
Sleekie, an aging card sharp, get birds like Ruby? I'm loyal, sincere, straight
as a die, and on my tod. 'I'm Jig,' I said. 'Pleased to meet you, Ruby.'

You can only hold a meaningful look for a few seconds. It becomes
too pushy. I busied myself, checking that the chains weren't on the hubs. Sleekie's
a mistrustful sod.

'Have you the key, please?'

'Yes. Here, Jig.'

She undipped it from her waist. For a millisec I stood as close as
morality allowed, my breathing funny. You get times like this. I was torn
between this exquisite creature, or making off with Sleekie's massive vintage
motor. Fear won. Sleekie's sly. He wouldn't exactly brawl, but sooner or later
I'd finish up poisoned by an unknown hand.

'What time will you bring it back, Jig?'

Hopes rose. I’ll phone, Ruby. Will you be in?'

She nodded. 'Yes. He does evening performances at the Tolbooth.
They send a taxi.'

'Marvellous.' I swung into the leather driving seat. 'Perhaps
we'll have time for . . .' I displayed a brief wrestle with conscience.

'Maybe.' Pert smile, a definite plus.

A quick prayer to the god of engines. I pumped the petrol knob.
You can flood the damned thing and it takes a day to clear. A woman called
Sheila had showed me the manoeuvres, but that was long ago. I'm still not sure
whether I was glad when the motor fired. I'd have to go. I'd forgotten how high
these old bangers are. You seem miles off the ground, on a palanquin. I
released the handbrake, rolled the old car forward. I halted.

'Ruby. You wouldn't like to come along?'

'Get on with you, Jig.'

Jig? Me. 'Have the kettle on, love.'

'Perhaps.' Her smile lit the village.

Easing the clutch in, I moved the monster forward onto the road.

A lovely lass, Ruby. Did she truly know the effect she had on a
bloke? No. Women don't, or we'd never do anything but grovel around them all
day. Lucky old Sleek. I've never seen him with the same woman twice on the
trot.