The Sleepers of Erin (18 page)

Going round the southern extremity, the lake’s terrain included a castle ruin, pretty prominent on a small mound. It was infused by legends of the White Knights. It looked lovely, good enough to eat, but I was becoming edgy. A saloon car came along the road, slowed near the van, then droned on towards Kilmallock. Not quite Lena’s style, however, and too far off for me to spot any occupants.

A horseman showed beyond the castle mound as I walked on. Now I was heading for the van, which came in sight in another few furlongs. Different horse, different bloke. He too held a stick-shaped thing, carrying it lance-like, the way Red Indians do in Westerns. He remained motionless, just facing the road.

That left only one archaeological site. The hotel’s local guide marked it as a wedge, calling it ‘ancient grave’. These things are small, but as I came on to it I guessed it would be a gallery grave. Vibes began shivering through me as I approached. Gallery graves date from about 3000
BC
for half a millennium. They consisted of a long wedge-shaped gallery made of big stones arranged to form compartments. At the mouth was a space indicated by standing stones. Of course it was now only revealed by mounds and the odd projecting stone, but you could easily guess where the grave’s entrance might be. Big medicine, I decided, but which of all these places was the likely one? And still no sign of disturbance by busy little Heindrick-motivated diggers, except for a recent pile of dark brown peat a hundred yards off, probably drying and waiting collection for the fire.

Was the scam therefore going to be pulled somewhere in that tiny hamlet of Kilfinney, then? If so, how? It was bright day now. The horseman by the castle ruins was moving slowly parallel. In another few minutes he would reach the road a mile or so off. I stood on the nearest stone and looked back across the Lough. The first horseman was silhouetted on the skyline, moving along the crest by the ring rampart. Great. In the distance a shrill engine whined, maybe from that lane beyond Kicknadun Hill, too far off to be any help. Well, they were both behind me if I headed for the van. I hungered for streets and traffic, but keep to a steady walk, Lovejoy. In this state I’d never make it running. I struck out north, converging on the road along the western edge of the lake, hurrying and covering the uneven ground really well.

Apart from an ugly reedy patch near where I’d gazed at the crannog, I made fast if rather breathless time. The horsemen showed no intention to hurry, moving steadily behind me at a distance, one heading for the road, the other following me round the lough. I was almost past my first two stone circles and in hailing distance of Gerald’s van when it dawned on me. They were merely herding me back. I was
supposed
to come this way.

Stumbling across the tussocks I kept an eye out northwards. Sure enough, there was another rider on that bend of the lake. He must have just watched from there all the time as I’d been shepherded nearer and nearer. The trap was closed.

Wearily I plodded slowly towards the van. Of course I could have sprinted to it and tried a dashing Brands Hatch start, but I’m not that daft. Nor were the Heindricks loony enough to send their cavalry to herd me into a getaway vehicle.

I made it and climbed in, utterly panned out. A big hand clamped on my shoulder though I’d made no move to start the engine.

‘Look,’ I said over my shoulder. ‘If you’re trying to frighten me to death, yahboo doesn’t work after puberty, okay?’ And continued into the disappointed silence, ‘Joe Bassington, isn’t it? The sleeper king? Dropped off from that car, and hiding under the sacks as I got in, right?’

‘Okay, mate,’ Kurak said. He looked close to tears I’d not run screaming. ‘Don’t start yet.’ We waited till the three riders clumped up. Their sticks were shotguns, only crummy modern gunge but still superior armament of a kind I did not possess. Two of the blokes were the boozers from the hotel reception area.

‘Top of the morning,’ I said.

‘All right, is it, Mr Kurak?’ one said, eyeing me with curiosity.

‘Eeess agutt,’ Joe Bassington said, narked off that I was there to witness his phoney Slav act.

I fell about laughing to get him madder. One of the riders held up a warning hand. We all listened obediently. The shrill whine of an engine came quite clearly to all five of us.

‘Not a car,’ the horseman from the castle mound said.

The second nodded, said something in Gaelic. All three riders looked over the lake.

‘Sure, from the lane.’

‘Lambretta?’

It actually did sound like one of those motorized scooters.

‘Who’ll be having one of them things?’ the north horseman said. He stood up in his stirrups to see further. They were quite at home on their bloody great animals. One stuck its nose in the van and frisked me for sugar with its snuffler. I’ve always found horses real chisellers.

‘Sod off, mate,’ I told it. Now I’d been rumbled I wanted my own breakfast. Besides, the selfish creature had helped to catch me.

‘That teacher down in Rath Luirc, and the O’Donnells in Croom.’

‘Not them.’

We all listened as the tinny little sound buzzed into a fade-out. Fed up, I started the van’s engine. One horse started but settled down at a word.

‘Cheers,’ I said.

‘We’ll be saying so long to you,’ the hillside rider said courteously. I felt I’d been knighted and gave them an arm-wag to show there were no hard feelings. They even waved back. I ask you. It’s a frigging rum world right enough.

I trundled the van northwards.

‘Don’t tell me, Joe,’ I said to Kurak. ‘Through Limerick on to the old Ennis road, eh?’

‘Eeess arite.’ He shrugged with embarrassment when I turned to stare disbelievingly. ‘Well, Lovejoy. Heindrick’ll do his nut if you’ve sussed me out.’

‘Okay, okay, mate,’ I said. ‘I’ll keep pretending you’re Kurak. Let’s hope Lena’s got the kettle on. Here, Joe. That sleeper job you pulled in Northampton that time, with those rectangular folding card tables. You remember, copied from Stalker and Parker in walnut? How did it go? I never did hear the finish of it . . .’

I drove on, into captivity.

Coming down the wide staircase, I felt like Noel Coward, a right lemon. The dressing-gown was all I had on, dragon patterns and those flame-shaped clouds copied from Ming Period stuff. A maid – in this day and age – had knocked about the bedroom while I bathed. She’d taken my clothes, leaving one penny and a coil of four violin strings on the dressing-table, all I possessed, thanks to Shinny’s mistrust. The girl was pretty but wanted to do my nails with a sandpaper spatula. I said no thanks, and she opened the door indicating I was wanted downstairs. The point is, you can’t escape attired in only a dressing-gown.

The house was magnificent, antique furniture and trappings everywhere. If it could be faulted at all, it was in the mixture of styles. The Heindricks had accumulated paintings of different character and periods and simply put them wherever they had the next bit of space. On the stair wall, for example. You’ve never seen such a jumble: a Rembrandt etching, a swirly modern Henry Moore drawing, a Dante Gabriel Rossetti watercolour of the wife of William Morris (DGR reckoned he loved her, but I think he only ever loved his own wife, Lizzie Siddall, who died so soon). This hotchpotch gallery went on through a modern John Nash, a Rowlandson (I hate those) and ended in a painting of a Shakespeare scene labelled ‘H. Fuseli, 1741–1825,’ which gave me a laugh. I moved on down the last three stairs because Joe’s big fist grabbed me and pulled me across the marble-floored hall and into a vast plush room.

‘Here, Joe,’ I whispered, annoyed, ‘stow it, mate.’

‘Eessa Lovejoyee, modom,’ Joe said.

‘How pleased we are that you could come.’ Lena Heindrick, Heindrick, and Jason. In that order, I think, though I’m still not certain.

‘How do,’ I said, making sure my dragon gown was arranged right. ‘Hiya, Jason.’

Lena rose, placed a hand on my arm and led the way smiling through double doors. We followed, dithering about who went first. Give Jason his due, he was not in the least put out when I gave him one of my special glances, just nodded back. Mixed oak-panel-andplush breakfast room. We were helped to the grub – arranged buffet-style like in rep theatre – by another maid, as if the kidneys and bacon and eggs were heavy as lead.

That breakfast was really great, plenty of grub, and chat about antiques. Some chat is more innocent than ours was.

‘Mind if I ask,’ I started up, thinking no time like the present, ‘if that
Christ Conversing With Law Doctors
is the one nicked from Lausanne?’ The thieves had done a simple switch, with copies made from an art book. The curators said the stolen originals were so famous they would be unsaleable, which is a laugh. The antiques game is in a right state, but you still don’t have to give Rembrandts away.

Heindrick was amused, sipping a minuscule glug of juice at the head of the table. ‘The
Musée de L’Elysée
got them both back, did they not?’ So he didn’t mind if the maid heard about the odd antique rip. I’d hoped a quick seduction of an honest Limerick lassie would spring me from all this, and now quickly abandoned that impromptu plan.

‘Oh.’ I was a picture of innocence. ‘Were there two?’

‘
Touché!
’

‘You admired our collection of paintings, Lovejoy.’ Lena nodded for the toast to keep coming.

‘Well, in a way. I like genuine paintings, one of the most satisfying artistic—’

‘Genuine?’ Heindrick’s voice sharpened. ‘Are you implying—?’

‘Your Fuseli’s duff.’

‘You mean . . . a fake?’

Jason was eating breakfast like the true ex-military officer he was, scrambled egg patted into squares and precise kidney slivers doing a flanker. His knife and fork paused.

I nodded. ‘The goon who sold you it didn’t get the surname right, either.’ I spelled it for them, having a high old time. ‘Henry Füssli, though everybody else spelled it Füseli. I’ve a soft spot for him because he too was a right robber.’

‘In what way, Lovejoy?’ I could have sworn Lena was enjoying the consternation my patter was creating.

‘Füssli was Zurich Swiss. Not much imagination but great technique.’ I cleared a mouthful to explain. ‘And a real talent-spotter. Admitted that William Blake was the most superb source for the art copier.’ I gave a benign grin. ‘Though
he
used the word steal. Naturally, he made it into London society – wealth, position, status, the lot. Blake didn’t.’

‘That painting is genuine, Lovejoy.’ Jason’s edible army hadn’t moved.

‘Sure.’ I gave him an ostentatious wink. Divide and conquer, somebody once said. Heindrick had gone quiet. Either Jason had charged them the earth for the Füssli or Heindrick was thinking of other possible fakes in his possession. Lena was smiling, full of hidden mirth, but then she’d learned how to divide and conquer many moons ago.

‘Lovejoy might be joking,’ she announced, patting her hubby’s hand consolingly.

‘Watch him, Mrs Heindrick,’ Jason said quietly. ‘I’ve seen him do worse than joke.’

‘Got the torcs here?’ I asked, to keep the serve. ‘Or are they down near the—?’

Quickly Lena called to the serf, gazing distantly over my head, ‘You can go now, Mary. Thank you.’

‘—Because time’s getting on and I’ve an appointment . . .’

The door closed. Lena was observing me. I was the only one noshing now. Heindrick was pale and uptight, Jason silent with his military mind on the go.

‘Torcs, Lovejoy? What do you know about torcs?’

‘That mean I can’t have any more, please?’

‘As much as you wish.’ Lena gestured me over to the bureau where I refilled my plate. I really hate to see class furniture used wrong. The coffee tray was placed on a mahogany tripod table next to the bureau. It was 1750-ish, with lovely ‘piecrust’ edging. Underneath, it was supported on a ‘birdcage movement’ through a single pillar of three carved clawfeet. The birdcage arrangement means its top can be folded down. Rotten luck to be used for a grotty coffee tray, especially as it antedated the bureau and silver by a century.

Lena ahemed. ‘Lovejoy, please.’ I returned, smouldering about the antiques. ‘Lovejoy.
What
torcs?’

Apologetically I edged the toast nearer and started on the grub. Eating alone in company’s embarrassing, but it’s their fault they stopped. I’ve noticed that selfstarvation is becoming pretty common these days.

‘The ones you had made.’ I offered Jason the butter but he refused without moving a muscle. ‘Joxer, remember? The one who died by accident, in a workshop fire. Once he’d made the repro torcs for you, that is.’

‘Who revealed more than was advisable,’ Heindrick added.

‘How, Lovejoy?’ Trust Lena to stay on course. ‘You’re not psychic too?’

‘One of Joxer’s rough casts in base metal was left in the ash. I stood on it by accident while the police searched.’

‘Did you—?’ Jason began, but Heindrick silenced him.

‘Lovejoy said nothing or none of us would have got this far.’

‘Then I saw the museum exhibits in Dublin.’ My continued story had blammed Jason’s appetite. I wondered if he’d mind if I asked him if I could finish his grub for him. ‘A lovely exhibition. Seen it?’ Heindrick’s head moved an inch in negation. ‘You should,’ I enthused with poisonous heartiness. ‘It’s in the same central display.’

‘In the same central display as what?’ Lena was worth ten of the rest of them.

I smiled. ‘As the Derrynaflan Hoard.’

The silence was broken only by the sound of me finishing everything in reach. I went red because your mouth and jaws and teeth make a hell of a din when you’re last to finish. Even a single swallow sounds like a sink emptying however hard you try.

‘What’s that particular treasure to us?’ Lena again. Like I said, a real woman, boots and all.

‘It’s your blueprint.’

Jason rose abruptly and went to stand by the door. I nearly choked laughing. Big Joe, well, yes, especially if assisted by that cavalry. But Jason couldn’t stop me in a million years.

Lena snapped, ‘Sit
down
,’ then turned to her hubby, smiling. ‘Show them to Lovejoy, Kurt.’