The Lies of Fair Ladies

For Charlotte Grace

To The Chinese God Wei D'to, who saves books from scoundrels

Thanks Susan, as ever

One

Time to get rid of her.

Decisions about women creep up, don't they? They can even reach
in, where antiques rightfully rule. I’m an —
the
—antique dealer, and I know.

Joan made love when her husband, Del, was talking at us. I’m a
patient bloke but there are limits. She spat insults at him, jeering until her
moans came and oblivion ruled. Can you imagine?

I’d given her the best years—well, two days—of my life. The reason
was this antique she hadn't got.

Joan was filthy rich, in a praiseworthy way. That is, she honestly
thought everybody else was rich, too. To me, antiques are one of the ten
reasons for money; the other nine don't matter.

"What do you think?" she'd asked me brightly at the
auction. First time I saw her. She gave me a dog to hold, silly cow. I gave it
her back. It yawned, thinking what a hell of a day.

"Dog looks fine, lady."

I wasn't particularly happy. I’d had a lousy day, St.
Edmunds-bury. The worst job in antiques is being a tax hiker. You stroll in to
some auction. Then, obviously suppressing excitement/glee and whatnot, you bid
for Lot No. X—some duff painting, whatever old dross you've been hired to hike
up. Rival dealers see your eagerness and get drawn in. The more the merrier.
The price soars. Guess who eventually buys it? Why, Lot X's owner himself! Then
he donates it to some museum and claims tax relief
on the price he bid
. Good, eh? The painting was one I'd faked, a
John Constable
View of Dedham, Late Sun.
Quite good, but wrong canvas. I’d got his greens just right, though mixing
Prussian blue like J. C. is a swine. The owner was Barry Dimmonson. He met me
in his Rolls to pay.

'I’ll need you again soon, Lovejoy.'' He fumed carcinogens from
his bulbous cigar. "This time knock me up somefink else. A pot."

"What sort? A Ch'ien Lung vase takes—"

"Any frigging sort." He cruised off snarling into a car
phone. Like I say, a tax hiker's a rotten job. I hurried to the viewing day at
Wittwoode's Auction Temple, to meet destiny and Joan.

She was exquisite. One waft of her perfume was worth Wittwoode's Auction
Temple plus all the crud that lay therein.

"I don't mean Jasper!" she cooed. "I mean
that."

The onyx cameo. Lot 66. Passing dealers listened with their
directional ears.

Now, there's an obligation among dealers to support each other
against the common enemy. And the good old C.E. is you. Punters, buyers.
Anybody who wants what dealers want, namely antiques. Auctioneers don't count
because everybody hates them. Reason? Because they know nothing, and do nowt.
And get a rake-off. Makes your blood boil.

The question worried me. Was this bird honestly asking for
honesty? Then my mind smiled.

Over in the corner of the draughty old church Wittwoode has the
nerve to call
his
, not God's, temple,
Denny was trying to sell this very cameo to a woman called George Danson. A
word about terminology here: a "woman" to the antiques trade is a
non-dealer, man or woman. A "lady" is anyone with money, pure and
maybe not so simple. George Danson was a poor old gaffer with a kindly soul.
Denny was a shark; that is, an antiques dealer. He didn't own the lovely cameo
brooch, of course. (Tip: People who try to sell you an item in an auction
viewing never, ever own it, so watch out.)

I'd seen Denny come in out of the rain. He tried to con me once, a
Royal Worcester framed oval porcelain plaque painted by John Stinton. Not
really antique—1928 or thereabouts, but worth a small car. Denny's was a dud.
Fake porcelains are stamped out in Germany these days; the colors are wrong. I
decided to blam Denny and do this ladylady [sic] a good turn.

"That, lady?" Decibels bring audiences.
"Fake."

"Fake?" She stared at me. "I mean the cameo."

Emphasis was needed. "Duff. Neff. Fraud. Sexton Blake,
fake.''

"But ..." She had a lovely high color of a sudden.
Jasper growled, bad vibes. "The catalogue says genuine Etruscan."

The power of the written lie always astonishes me. And nobody lies
like a cataloguer. Except an auctioneer.

"Balderdash," I boomed. "Auctioneers cheat. Some
pillocks— er, sorry. They hope to deceive."

"That's positively shameful!" She eyed me. "You can
tell?"

Somebody passing chuckled. Bernese, a luscious dealer in dolls'
houses and Edwardian domestic furniture. She hates me. We once made smiles.

"Lovejoy's divining rod's famous, dear," Bernese said
with malice, crashing across to upend a small occasional table, 1906 or
thereabouts. She wants me to go into partnership. I won't because they don't
last. Her husband runs a civil service school.

"I'm a divvy, love. I feel it. But get a Mac Arthur
microscope. Even a hand lens'll show the surface scratches from an electric
micro. Modern fakers have no patience. It's supposed to be nicked from
Florence's Archaeological Museum. Cosimo de' Medici's collection of ancient
jewelry."

The dud cameo was well-nigh perfect. It showed Hercules and his
missus, Hebe. "Beautifully done. See how their profiles are cut, the brown
layer as his hair, beard, cloak?" The bluish underlayer was left in
various thicknesses for the gods' features.

She wasn't taking any notice, just staring. "You hadn't seen
it before," she accused. "Yet you ..."

People never believe you first time round. Yet they believe
promised tax cuts, the lies on food labels. Amazing. She looked me up and down,
registered (a) shoddy; (b) wet through, so no motor; and (c) resented by all
dealers and auctioneers present.

"Right, Lovejoy!" Wittwoode steamed up, frothing. He's a
great frother, walrus mustache and bottle specs. He thinks nobody knows he
fiddles his books. A pillar of the trade. "You've done enough damage.
Out!"

"I'm going, I'm going."

Then the lady uttered magic. All froze in reverence.

"I have a valuable original cameo." She smiled. Jasper
whimpered, knowing trouble. "Would you . . . divvy it, Lovejoy?"

Police or profit? A gorgeous bird or Wittwoode's goons?

"Well, all right." I'm good at surrender.

Joan's cameo was a similar fraud. She'd paid a fortune for it. I
explained the sad news.

She heard me out. First time she'd listened to anyone for years. I
talked on, scams I have known. I came to when it was almost dark. We were
served tea by a groveling serf. I made to go. She restrained me with skill.

"I have more jewelry, Lovejoy. In my boudoir." I'd never
heard anyone use that word except on the music hall.

And that was that. Except that, when we were just on the point of
serious smiles, she breathlessly cried to wait, for Christ's sake. Just another
minute . . .

She clicked a radio on at seven o'clock. Everybody's talk show
favorite, Del Vervain, came on, poisonous with affability.

Joan turned to me, face suddenly haggard. "See,
Lovejoy?" she asked, in tears. "My husband's famous boyish charm.
Isn't it wonderful?"

"Er, very wonderful." I didn't want any part of this.
The bloke was connected with grimsville.

She said, abruptly savage, "Don't go. It's a live show. He'll
not be home for hours. ..."

Sloshed out of his mind, by all accounts. Her dress fell, her
breasts appeared. She took hold of me, fingers working. I started a lucid
denial, based on pure logic.

I managed, "Ooooh."

My second evening with Joan—Del Vervain's show broadcasts between
seven and eleven—I escaped by saying I'd go for a present for her. She was
thrilled. As her cameo was fake, wouldn't it be luvverly if I wangled her a
genuine Etruscan cameo? She wept sincere tears.

"You're wonderful, Lovejoy." We were still in the
after-throes. I was dying to slip into the little death that comes after. Joan,
typical bird, talked nonstop.

I filled up. She was right. I am. Emotion's catching, to sensitive
blokes like me.

"When do we meet, doowerlink?" My cover.

"Coffee. Joynson's, Sudbury." She owns Joynson's.

She sent me off in her chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce. I had him
drop me at the Antiques Arcade. Closed at that hour, of course. The chauffeur
wasn't deceived. His eyes kept giving me sardonic glances in the mirror. I
don't like people who are sardonic. What's wrong with trust?

That night at my cottage I slept the sleep of the just.

By eight next morning I was up and whistling, feeding the robin his
cheese, the bluetits their nuts, and me fried tomatoes, dry bread, tea with
brown sugar. My cottage is Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.—to sound American and
affluent, all Americans being rich. Our own humbler description, "Ltd,''
sounds sternly not-got-much.

An elderly lady was on the doorstep as I launched out to face the
world. I sighed. Today, I especially did not want a Yank researching her family
tree.

''Morning, Miss Turner."

She's from Virginia or somewhere. Started haunting me after we met
in the grottie town library. Like a fool I’d taken pity on the dingy old crone,
corrected a library lass who was telling her wrong about birth certificates.

"Morning, Lovejoy!" She's an eager ninety. She dragged
notes from a handbag like a leather trunk. "I'll only trouble you a
moment. Your advice worked! The people at the General Register Office in Saint
Catherine's House were charming!"

"Sorry, love. I've no time." Everybody's always after me
for a handout. Didn't the shabby old biddy know Americans are millionaires?

She trotted alongside, adjusting specs to peer at some scrap.
"My parents, John Turner and Mary Ann. I have their birth certificates
right here!”

"Glad you made it. So long."

"No, no!" she cried. "Lovejoy, I'm desperate!"

What now? I cursed myself for a fool. And halted so she could
wheeze into the punch line. She looked threadbare as me. I was worn out and I'd
only got ten yards. I gave her my last note. Anything to get rid.

"Marriage certificates at the G.R.O., Kingsway. Alphabetical
order. Different-colored form. Guess your grandpa's marriage date, work back.
Only takes half an hour. Ta-ra."

"Thank you," she called after, smiling. Daft owd bat.

I yelled over my shoulder, "Put the right volume number on
the form, for God's sake."

"Thank you, Lovejoy." Tears of gratitude? Silly old cow.

Our village bus was late—not an all-time first. I was still
waiting at the chapel when the Plod stopped and offered me a lift. Not where I
wanted to go, but police are poor on direction. I've often found that. We drove
in monosyllables to a huge moated house near Manningtree. Set in a vast flat
cornfield, a small river snaking indolently past. My heart sank when I saw who
the head ploddite was.

''Morning," I offered heartily, going to stand beside him at
the drawbridge. "Black Knight challenged yet?"

He snorted non-amusement, stood there examining the edifice.
Lovely, turreted, windows in serried ranks.

"Ever heard of pace, Lovejoy?"

Drinkwater's some sort of inspector. Though the Bill come heavy
with titles these days. Ever noticed? The more titles, the worse they behave.
Odd. I’ll have to think about that. It may be a universal law or something.

"Pace?" Be helpful. "Speed? Alacrity?" His
cadaverous features didn't improve. "That poison gas?"

Drinkwater's a Midlands reject. He has four spoonfuls of sugar in
each half-pint mug of tea at the nick. His false teeth clack when he talks. His
left ear twitches.

"That's Mace, you prat." He never sits either, even
during interrogations, just walks about, hands in his trouser pockets. I've never
seen him without a mac. His Adam's apple yoyos hypnotically. He focuses
attention. A one-man carnival. "P.A.C.E., Lovejoy, Police and Criminal
Evidence Act."

"No. Have . . . ?" Maybe he had? I coughed nervously.

His bleary eyes took me in. "This interview will be deemed to
have satisfied that act's requirements, Lovejoy. Follow?"

"Yes." I wasn't to complain.

"Did you pull the robbery herein?"

Herein? Trust the Plod. Archaisms deceive the innocent.

"What's been nicked? Looks empty to me."

He chuckled, gave me the benefit of his features face-on. You know
he's chuckling because his skeletal chest jerks.

"Not empty, Lovejoy. Gutted. Fireplaces. Balustrades. Tiles.
Wallpaper, even. Pelmets. Kitchen ranges. Chandeliers."