The Possessions of a Lady (38 page)

Quick as a flash, Oz went public with every erg it possessed. In
1990—1991, it won the silent war. Its yellow diamonds and even its tea-coloured
browns—'Champagne Diamonds' to the newly admiring public—leapt into the
magazines. De Beers had always bought and sold coloured diamonds, of course,
but returned the boring old pinkos to Oz for disposal.

Think rarity to stay on beam. In, say, the prodigious Argyle mine
of Kimberley, you'll weigh some 42 million carats of diamonds a year. Question:
how much tonnage is the elusive pink? Answer: a mere 42 carats. Dozily putting
my head straight, I worked it out. You slog for a year, dig up millions of
carats of diamonds, mostly industrial granules. Painstakingly sieving through
umpteen tons, you find less than one-third of an ounce of pink diamonds. Always
assuming you've kept awake and not missed any.

They are clandestinely marketed by the diamond world (in Geneva,
that secret upper suite in the Beau Rivage Hotel, but keep it under your hat).
The world's merchants, under armed guard, humbly pay through the nose for the
privilege of buying. Never mind that they get only a few minutes to decide,
that they're not even allowed to haggle for what's in those little Perspex
containers. And never mind that the cost will be in heartbreaking millions of
dollars. The pink gems will change eager hands. Everybody will rejoice.

See the difference? Aeons ago, pink diamonds were not worth
bothering with, mere diamond trade 'glassies.' Now? The world's most valuable
gem known to Man. The difference, Back Then, and Now. And Back Then's where
antiques come from.

The tannoy startled me with a shrill whistle.

'Lovejoy, please! To the Grand Mega-Prize Antiques Auction Quiz
Competition immediately!' I dropped my ice cream, got up to do my duty.

The fake blue lac was only wood and a daub of colour, not like a
genuine antique. But I went, pushed through the crowds thronging the entrance.

Inside, the babble almost deafened me. Where the altar had been
was now an improvised stage with a podium. Stella's tables of crud were
relegated to the sides, thank heavens. But crammed on the stage and in a thick
crescent before it were arranged Briony's possessions from Thornelthwaite
Manor. Wanda's lasses and her men were acting as clerks and guards,
occasionally warning off dealers who wanted too close a look because sudden
last-minute inspections from dealers are the bane of auctioneers and suggest
neffie goings-on.

Briony was on the stage, sniffing with pride. No chairs. The dense
crowd had to stand. There must have been seven hundred, the balconies rimmed
with enthralled faces. I was moved. Everywhere, as I started edging towards the
stage, folk were smiling, saying ta for coming, good luck, thanks Lovejoy. Old Alice
started excited applause as I reached the front. Folk even patted my back, like
you do heroes.

'Ta, loves,' I found myself saying, feeling daft as a brush. 'Ta.'
I made the stage, got hauled up, and faced the sea of expectant faces.

Scorn's easy to bear. Threats are my norm. But being clapped onto
a stage is hard to take. I felt a stupid cold coming on, coughed a few times.
All I was going to do was say who'd made the best guess for the fake, then
clear off with the antiques Mayor Tom had donated. Betrayal's only fair. I
deserved something for my trouble.

The precious 'dress and features furniture'—as fashion calls
jewellery—was none of my business. If Manchester's pundit curators couldn't be
bothered to keep pace with the times, when cheap old antiques soared from
farthings to fortunes, that was their lookout. I didn't want any more wars. I'd
accidentally got Spoolie topped. But do accidents really exist? Maybe the
ancient Greeks were right. Everything is fate, so put up with it. Vyna, touring
the textile museums of the North, had spotted the pinkos, wondered if they
might be real. She'd seen my response to the one brooch I'd seen on the crated
dress at the textile museum. That had been good enough. Wasn't that it?

A jolly bloke, charity badges all over him showing that he was
holy compared to us, boomed, 'Ladies and gen'men! Here's Lovejoy! Thank you,
please!'

I feel a duckegg at the best of times, let alone doing a Sermon on
the Mount. A microphone was thrust into my hand. I looked at everybody. They
were so pleased. Why? The town had had its day, was left behind in the tide
race of modernity, a historical footnote. Even our speech was the failed
comedian's joke, to get a bored audience going.

The little lass, my second cousin who'd made me tie her shoes
earlier, was there, waving, shy. I tried to give her a wink. I saw Tinker
signalling among the crowds squashing in. Cradhead was ahead of him, smiling a
surprised smile at the scene.

My feet were treading water. I wanted a lass, a quiet drink, maybe
make love watching a sunset, not tell a crowd how well I'd done on their
behalf.

A small eddy among the spectators between two laden trestle
tables. Total, giving me the job-done sign. It's a nape scratch, while looking at
the hirer. Tinker's lorry now contained Mayor Tom's antiques. All I had to do
was scarper.

The crowd quietened, stilled. I looked along the faces on the
balconies, the ocean of smiles below.

'It's smashing to be home,' I said. Riotous applause. 'Home,' I
said, sick within, 'is where the heart is.'

The crowd actually cheered. I stood like a lemon, a fraudulent
one, as the racket subsided.

'Listen, pals.' I didn't know how to say it. 'Times are new. It's
not like yesteryear. Morality's new. You have to be aware who the frauds are.'

'Hear! Hear!' cried the announcer. 'This is the very reason we
have the prestigious firm of Lissom, Prenthwaite and Co's lovely Miss Lydia . .
.'

Lydia's letter. She came onto the stage.

'This is the very reason,' I cut in, and I had the microphone, not
him, 'that I've decided to agree to Lissom Prenthwaite's request.' I overrode,
seeing Lydia's sudden dither. I thundered, 'I'll do the auction myself. Miss
Lydia has generously agreed to step down.' Into the applause, I called out the
result of the Great Quiz. 'The winner is Mrs. Wanda, of Sutton Coldfield, who
priced the blue lac cabinet at sixty-eight thousand. Congratulations, lady!'

Before questions could get going, I yanked the auction list from
the announcer's hand.

'Miss Lydia, auctioneer of the famed Lissom Prenthwaite, will be
our official observer!' I chuckled, gunfire sounds.

Before anybody could draw breath I raced on. 'The possessions of a
lady! Removed from the ancient Thornelthwaite Manor! Item One, a display of
Ely's sporting ammunition, arranged as a tableau of central fire gastight
cartridge cases.'

'Showing here, sir!' a whiffler cried.

'Who'll start me off?' I called, beckoning for a gavel and
something to whack it on. Lydia came forward smiling kilowatts of anger, handed
me her gavel, and I was away.

Tinker was thunderstruck, because I should be sloping off in his
wagon. And two bulky hulks from some black lagoon were darkening the crowded
double doors where daylight should have entered. My spirit stalled. One was
Deny, Big John Sheehan's ultimate correctional argument. The nickname's not
Londonderry, merely short for deranged. I've seen Derry walk up to eight
grinning blokes, each armed with crowbars and such, and blam the lot while they
flailed away. He hadn't even breathed heavy, just grumbled at the mess the
destroyed octet made, bleeding on the warehouse floor, as if they were to
blame. As, I'd hastened to agree at the time, they were.

'Come on, friends,' I bleated when the bidding faltered. 'Are you
all done?'

'Get on with it, Lovejoy,' some dealer called.

'This is for charity.' What more could I lose? I'd lost
everything, even me. Tinker was shaking his head. 'Don't let the ten per cent
premium daunt you.'

A growl rose from the dealers, but what the hell. Auctioneers'
premiums are nothing but sheer extortion, a robber baron's private tax. If
Christies and Sotheby's do it, why shouldn't I?

The dealers lowered their heads like charging bison. The innocent
populace looked on, feeling the thrill.

'Nothing in the catalogue about a premium, Lovejoy,' some knowall
called.

'Blinking printers,' I said. 'Any more on this item, then?'

Well, I went barmier still. Having got the extra, I did the
'frog', bringing forward a later item, a trick to raise bidding levels.

'I'll advance Item Nineteen,' I chirruped. 'I've been especially
asked, by bidders who have to leave early. It was a joint prize with the blue
lac cabinet, but time was short.'

'Showing here, sir!'

'This Chippendale style cabinet is a beautiful reproduction—Tom
Chippendale loved fretted rails, yes, but he always used triple plywood. His
fret was never solid heartwood, as on this cabinet. Chippendale's was
crisscross ply—the grain goes different ways. And our cabinet here has
one
pane of glass a side, whereas
Chippendale's glass doors had several small panes. Notice the drawers, the
quarter mouldings so prominent inside? They only became common long after Tom C
passed away. Who'll start me off for this repro Chippendale display cabinet?
Can I say a thousand?' The dealers' signals started, for the glass panes were
multiple, and the fretted rail was old-style ply. Most dealers thought I'd got
it wrong, that the fake was genuine.

A Glasgow dealer bought it for a high figure. Within a week he'd
have sold it for four times that—to some innocent who'd believe he'd scooped a
real Chippendale. Guesswork is the modern fashion.

I surged on, knocking down item after item, while Lydia smiled fury
and Tinker all but died from dismay and Deny stood impassive with Bonch his
oppo, and Cradhead smiled urbanely, and Mayor Tom beamed at Stella and she
smiled back at him.

Best part of three hours, and I was done. There was riotous
applause as I handed over the gavel to the announcer man. I grinned and ta'd my
way outside, took a mighty swig of the cold moorland air.

Vans were already being loaded up. Successful bidders were paying
in to Wanda's team. The town hall's accountants were along, bricks for
paperweights on their tables. Wanda'd been right to put it in Bertie's hands.
But I was unnerved by the score of policemen who were marshalling motors,
checking departing dealers' chits before letting them out. Clever Wanda, using the
Plod.

'Lovejoy?' Tinker, stinking of ale, swaying abjectly. 'We in
trouble?'

'Not you, Tinker. Me.'

Derry was louring the skies near the chapel. Aureole was
beckoning, peering round some van like she was on the run. Nicola headed my
way, weeping. Faye, static in the milling crowd, stared at me hard. I honestly
didn't need any more vengeance. And Thekla, for heaven's sake, emerged with
Rodney in tow, Amy trying to attract her attention, while Roger strolled
effetely among the plebeians. He blew Carmel a kiss, cool as you please, as he
passed by Amy's massive purple caravan.

'What do I do, Lovejoy? The lorry's ready.'

'Let me think.' I had ten seconds before the sky fell in. 'Did
Total do it right?'

'Total did well. Got the antiques—crappy mirrors, them, eh?—loaded
in my three-tonner.'

'Any sign of Terence Entwistle?' We were being buffeted by the
crowd on its way to the stalls, sideshows, entertainments. Intermission time.
Bands were striking up. It was a fairground again.

'No sign. He must just have stashed Mayor Tom's antiques, then
scarpered.'

'Mayor Tom knew Stella had nothing but trash, so he donated what
antiques he could. He loves Stella, see, Tinker.'

'Oh, aye.'

I might have been talking about the weather.

'Stella's husband Terence decided to scupper her auction. Nicked
Mayor Tom's stuff, hid them in the old house. Maybe he was going to return them
afterwards!'

'Honest?' Tinker savoured the strange word, brought out a soiled
pasty from his greatcoat pocket, picked something off it, offered me a bite. I
declined. I like pasties, but there's a limit. 'Nar. He'll be as crooked as the
rest of us.'

'As the rest of
them
,
Dill,' Cradhead corrected, from among the jostling mob.

'Where'd you spring from, Cradhead?'

'Just passing, Lovejoy. A splendid do, what?'

I shrugged, making it obvious. I didn't want any dealers, or
Derry, thinking I was Plod-friendly.

'Where is Tinker's lorryload going, Lovejoy?'

'Eh? Oh, it's Wanda's. Did she say, Tinker?'

'What load's that, son?' Tinker did a coughing fit. Cradhead
winced, wrote him off.

'I take it that you will be around for a few days, Lovejoy?
Questions I want cleared up.'

'Of course. I've relatives to see.'

Briony Finch came to interrupt, breathless.

'Oh, Lovejoy! You were wonderful!' She looked starry-eyed at
Cradhead. 'Wasn't he wonderful?'

'Absolutely, Briony,' Cradhead replied gravely. Briony? I didn't
even know they'd met.