Faces in the Pool (13 page)

We went down to Lydia’s car, loot on my mind. Money was the main thing for those Faces trapped in their historical Time lacuna. We’re
all
trapped by money, let’s remember.

It isn’t of much interest, except to numismatists who fight over the design of pellets round a Saxon silver penny. Yet the fur flies. Add money to anything, and it ends in uproar. We are in there too, no matter how holy we pretend to be.

Think of any museum. Just the place to blob out, if your train is late or it’s teeming down. Then answer this question: is any great museum or gallery untouched by scandal? Or
hasn’t
been suspected/accused/aware of thefts while amassing treasures?
Are any of them honest?

Not on your life.

All
museums and national galleries stand shamefaced in the dock when you talk robbery, art theft, and the menace of loot. Money is their theme. Despite the problems of Christie’s and Sotheby’s, and of the harrowing trials
of the mighty J Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles and the denunciations of the St Petersburg Hermitage’s noble (and morally correct) policies, the antiques trade surges on. (And I’m really glad Getty of LA is returning forty artworks to Italy. No, honest – we all are, right?) Relics have become priceless. Tomb robbers flourish. Museums compete, and the weapon is gelt, plus treachery. It’s the ugliest business on earth. It is greed, this lethal world of antiques.

Esteemed curators demand sunroofed Porsche SUVs (think California, and I really am pointing the finger here), look as saintly as Sir Galahad, but that old niggle begins –
are they honest?
And prosecutors slither out of the woodwork, lawyers oil into night offices, accountants dangle on telephone wires, and suddenly the gallery is closed with police on the doors.

Planet Earth is a celestial body preoccupied with examining its own innards. Why is this? Because antiques rule. They rule by money. You gave your lovely lady a jewel. But would she be as pleased if it was paste?

And the answer is…?

Driving with Lydia, I dwelt on the image of Donna da Silfa’s tribes, all people with mind-bending antiques passed down families. OK, I’d got that bit. Yet to me, they were still Faces in the Pool, ethnic descendants in far-flung countries and yearning for some old motherland. It seems strange, hankering after old homelands you’ve never even seen. It’s almost as if Americans suddenly started longing to return to England, Italy or wherever. There are boring jokes about this – ‘Ireland (Germany, or Sicily, Savoy, etc) is a country whose people live everywhere else singing
about it,’ and so on. Sentiment is perpetuated by those yawnsome anthems hysterical crowds bawl at the Olympic Games and rugby internationals. For me, nationalism is the ultimate drowse. It’s great to harbour admiration for, say, ancient Egypt’s culture, the Han Dynasty, Stonehenge, or Shakespeare, but only
because it’s interesting,
not because it’s rabble-rousing. There’s a difference.

Thinking ends where money begins. And love ends where money begins. And loyalty ends where… Money stuns. I include me, I’m ashamed to say.

I’m no good when people ask an antique’s value. I always reply, ‘You have to laugh at those
Antiques Roadshows
, when some lady says of her George the Second 1759 silver London hallmarked cake basket, “It’s a family heirloom. I don’t care about money…” She’s screaming inside
“How much?”’
(The answer, to save you worrying, is US$ 27,500, but by the time this ink dries…) Filthy lucre isn’t as filthy as all that.

Money is now the only question. Hence our total barbarism. Loyalty? Forget it. Marriage? Divorce is its natural consequence. Truth? Outdated myths that died with Grampa. Decency? Vanished when Grandma sighed her last.

So could I really blame Donna da Silfa’s lost Faces, for selling up? Not really. They were determined to swim out of their landlocked tide pools into the sea of life. We’d all decide the same, cash in and scoot to the sin bins of Europe or the mighty US of A. I felt worn out by ridiculous thinking.

When we swung near Lincoln Cathedral (a giddy 7 mph, Lydia concentrating hard at the wheel) I suddenly
lost all reason. I saw Mortimer. Here in Lincoln? My trustworthy, dependable offspring, Mortimer?

He was on the greensward by the giant west door. People were loading Stand 149 into a pantechnicon. Hugo Hahn, the tall Namibian, was supervising the loaders.

Lydia drove on by in whirlwind progress, her delicious tongue protruding from the corner of her mouth. I’d never felt so alone. Mortimer represented honesty and decency. In short, Mortimer was everything I wasn’t. Until now? Surely to God the lad wasn’t as deceitful as me after all?

I was in a state of shock. And Lydia, epitome of grace, was here, in on everything without my knowing anything. Why was he so friendly with Donna da Silfa’s merry band, who’d murdered my lovely Tansy?

‘Hang on, Lyd,’ I said suddenly. ‘The hotel key. Stop here. I’ll phone.’

‘No, Lovejoy. I gave it in as we left.’

‘I’d better check. Park there.’

I alighted at the traffic lights. She tut-tutted and drove pacily on to a line of shops. I dodged into a close. She’d not be able to follow, not without parking and hunting the streets. She would then zoom home in a rage. Same old same old, folk say. I got breathless rushing down Lincoln’s steep slope. An ancient coffee house bridged a river with swans.

Stoke’s Coffee Shop was right in the middle of the city, and stood over the River Witham. The crowds of shoppers made me feel safe. Lovely copper cowls over a fire burning in the grate, with a cheery lass to serve.

She said brightly, ‘We call this the Glory Hole.’ She meant the swark flow beneath the Norman arch. ‘The
Murder Hole, old folk still call it. Changed it for tourists, see?’

‘Good idea,’ I praised faintly. Why was Tansy killed? You don’t kill saints for nothing. Except motive is always nonsense, nothing to do with what folk actually do.

‘Been to the Flower Festival?’ she kept on.

‘Lovely,’ I told her.

Looking over the thoroughfare, I thought of gems, the most precious objects known to man. I needed help from a gems expert.

Trying to focus my ragbag mind, I closed my eyes, trying to remember my birthstone. Didn’t it relieve headaches?

‘Sapphire, Lovejoy,’ somebody said. ‘Relieves pain.’

Had I been mumbling again?

‘Traditionally,’ his voice went on, ‘Zodiac for Libra – you are Libra, Lovejoy? Last day of September? – is the peridot. Its planetary influence comes via the sapphire.’

‘You little sod. Why were you chatting to those killers?’

‘Lovejoy, responsibilities do not disappear when you get bored.’

‘I’m going home, Mortimer.’

‘No. You must rob their mansion house.’

‘Last robbery I got nabbed, almost killed, then abducted.’

‘That’s no way to speak of friends.’

I opened my eyes. The caff was almost empty, the counter girl watching us warily. I hoped she hadn’t heard our conversation. I saw her eyes flick from Mortimer to me, as if spotting some resemblance.

‘Friends?’ I said bitterly. ‘My gran used to say, “Lord,
save me from mine helpers.”’ I thought a bit, went red and added, ‘Er, I mean your great-grandmother.’

‘You can tell me about her. I should like to know.’

‘Any mansion house in particular?’ As if I didn’t know. ‘If it goes wrong it’s your fault. Just remember that.’

‘Your team should be ready.’

He helped me to my feet. I caught sight of myself in a wall mirror. Haggard, looking off the road. I really was rubbish. Beside me, Mortimer looked fresh, astute, learned. I felt a weak glow of pride, quickly suppressed. I was right to be sorry for myself. He didn’t care a tinker’s toss.

‘Has it to be me?’

‘Of course.’ His tone hinted that I was being ridiculous. ‘You’re the one who gets everything right.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Dad’s old friends.’ He held the door open for me.

‘Thank you, sir,’ the girl called. ‘Please come again.’

She meant Mortimer, not me. I think these young girls are too cocky for their own good. Too forward, Gran would have said, or, if especially tuttish, too froward (sic).

First off, I’d throttle Tinker, if ever the drunken sot showed up. He’d got Mortimer into this unknowable shambles.

‘I’ll need to suss the place first.’

‘Not, I hope, to ask Quemoy for details, Lovejoy. I rather suspect Quemoy might not be entirely trustworthy.’

‘Right,’ I said, broken. The squirt was giving me orders now. That’s how far I’d sunk.

‘What about Lydia?’ I asked in the taxi. It was late afternoon. ‘And Fionuella?’

‘Miss Lydia is less hardy than some,’ Mortimer said gravely. ‘I have not had the pleasure of an introduction to the latter lady.’

Thank God for that, I thought fervently.

‘As for the private detectives, Lovejoy, they must mend their ways.’

It was said with sleet in his voice. I felt the chill.

‘Here, sir? City mortuary?’ The taxi driver wasn’t asking me.

‘Correct. Please wait.’

His eyes fixed on Mortimer in the mirror, and he silenced. I was narked. How come everybody obeyed a sprog, but never me? It’s not right.

We alighted, some cars pulling away. I eyed the place uneasily.

‘What are we here for, Mortimer?’

‘The coroner, please,’ he told a uniformed guard.

The man conducted us into the building where a bald
man rose in a fluster to greet us. The place was sparse, creamy walls with plaques. He shook Mortimer’s hand. Hopefully, I hung mine out. He ignored me.

‘Glad you made it, sir. Yes, the deceased can be viewed. The young lady has already arrived. Your driver may accompany you.’

‘Thank you for making the arrangements, Doctor.’

‘Yes, thanks,’ said the driver bitterly, aka me.

‘I shall wait in case you have any questions.’

A thin, cachectic man who looked as if he was gasping for a cigarette led the way. The mortuary was cold, breath steaming, the whole scene made worse by those
horror-film
lights. We went through two sets of double doors. An exquisite girl was standing there. She gave Mortimer a hug, to my annoyance – she at least twenty, and him hardly hatched.

‘Hello, sweetie,’ she said in a husky voice.

‘Is it she?’ Mortimer asked respectfully.

‘No, thank God.’ Had I seen her before?

Mortimer said, ‘You must be so relieved, Etholle.’

The exquisite girl said, ‘Yes, in case I had to pay for her frigging funeral.’

‘Etholle, we do not forget the sad demise of the poor deceased.’

‘If you say so, sweetie.’ She sounded bored out of her mind. ‘This is miles from any-fucking-where. I’ll wait.’

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’m Lovejoy.’

She turned her beautiful gaze on me. ‘Oh. Right.’

That was me done with. I followed Mortimer in. There lay poor Tansy, a sheet covering her. She looked…well, gone. Not one flower for a saint who had fed the eccentrics
of East Anglia, and seen them safely through dark snowy nights.

Somebody had killed her. What was worth a whole saint? I stood looking.

‘Tansy?’ Mortimer said.

Sometimes it is hard to speak. I looked at her hair.

Once, some of us slum urchins went to see the body of a dead friend. We did that back then. The parents let us in. We little children stood looking at the poor lad in his coffin. He’d choked on a fishbone. I can see Brian now, waxen in frothy white garb, looking as though he was having to work hard at being asleep. Poor Tansy was relaxed, her hair glorious. I hadn’t noticed it during her life, even though we had…

Somebody had done this violent thing, and I hadn’t stopped it. What would happen to her eccentrics, waiting for their dinners by the winter sea? The light of the world had gone out.

‘We can go now,’ Mortimer was saying over and over. He had the sense not to touch me.

‘So long, Tans. See you soon.’ I said it to the whole place more than Tansy. We left. The attendant closed the door.

Etholle was waiting. Men locked up after us.

‘What’s up with that berk?’ she asked Mortimer. ‘Is he crying?’

‘He’s got a cold,’ Mortimer said. ‘Allergic to flowers.’

‘It’s not my sister in there, is it?’

‘No.’ Mortimer paused. ‘Lovejoy’s friend.’

‘What now?’ She sounded bored sick.

‘Go and bring your sister, please, Etholle.’

‘Oh, fucking hell,’ said this charmer. ‘Do I have to? I hate the crazy frigging bitch. Can’t I just phone the useless mare?’

They seemed to have written Tansy off, and meant somebody else.

‘I would rather you went, Etholle.’

‘I haven’t any money,’ she said in a sulk.

‘Yes you have. Bring her north,’ Mortimer told her, a Churchillian imperative.

The ignorant cow flounced away – actually
flounced
out of a
mortuary
. We left, thanking the coroner. I signed a paper offered by his doleful acolyte, feeling a traitor to Tansy.

The taxi driver said nothing, just drove on without instructions.

‘You stay at a hotel, Lovejoy,’ Mortimer said. ‘Then head north tomorrow.’

‘Go and get who?’ I couldn’t help asking. ‘Lydia?’

‘No.’ He said no more until we drew up at a hotel. I could see the cathedral in the night sky. ‘Go to Blackpool. The New President Hotel.’

‘Who has she gone for?’ I asked again. ‘Somebody I know?’

‘The World Champion Sex Pole Dancer.’

My mind didn’t even bother trying. He bade me a polite goodnight and the taxi gunned away. That, I told myself angrily from the hotel steps, was my underage by-blow giving orders like Marlborough before a battle. Everybody simply did as he said, the little sod. Me, they ignored.

Sex pole dancer? I didn’t even know the crummy beginners in the local pubs, let alone a –
the
– world
champ. How the hell did he even know any? I’d box the little sod’s ears. He should remember he wasn’t too old to…
What was I saying?
It was time to give up parenthood, and I’d never really started. I’d be telling him to wash behind his ears next.

In the hotel I tried phoning Tinker. No go. I tried Lydia, no luck.

A room had been paid for and somebody had delivered clean clothes for me. No pole dancers, though. Sadness is compound. Grief always brings its friends. Stop being sad about one thing, you have plenty more sorrow to be getting on with. I tried to sleep. Tansy slept. I didn’t.

Six o’clock I roused. The girl on the hotel reception gave me an envelope with a train ticket to Blackpool. First Class? I’d never travelled posh in my life. I caught the London train, and pretended to the inspector I’d mistaken the train. It didn’t work. He made me get off a hundred miles down the line. Narked, I boarded the next southbound, and reached London. Blackpool could wait.

Tansy was dead, so I had duties of my own.

At the Gem Institute I asked for Arona. Etholle treated me like dirt, Mortimer saw me as a duckegg, and Donna da Silfa and her Faces in the Pool wanted me as a money spinner, fine. Let them all get on with their madnesses.

Arona came into the foyer. Her expression fell. ‘You bastard, Lovejoy. They said Inspector Kine.’

The security guard advanced to threaten.

‘Er, Kine couldn’t come, Arona. I’ve an urgent message.’

‘It’s all right, Nev.’ And as the guard relaxed, ‘I’ve no money so piss off, Lovejoy.’

And she turned on her heel.

Arona has never trusted me. If she were drowning and I sailed to her rescue, she’d gasp, ‘What’s the catch, Lovejoy?’ It all stems from when I sold her sister. It was to a drunk in East Cheap who owed me. I’d been desperate, and her sister thought it up. Saphie was always up for a lark. She’d met me afterwards in the Lamb (Dryden’s old pub, still there) down Long Acre and demanded half the gelt.

‘It’s those gems.’ I tried to make tears, failing, and I can’t make my lip tremble. ‘Tell them I’m sorry.’

She paused, but by then I was leaving.

‘What?’ I heard her call after me. ‘Lovejoy?’

Head down, I walked into the street, brave Sidney Carton to the guillotine.

She caught me up. ‘What gems? Tell who?’

‘Don’t pretend, Arona,’ I got out, all bitter. ‘I know it was you. Nobody else knows precious gems like you do, so don’t mess me about.’

Her eyes narrowed. Luckily it was drizzling, and a woman hates rain on a rising wind.

‘Lovejoy. If this is another of your—’

‘Yeah, that’s right, Arona.’ This time I really did get bitterness in. I sounded great. ‘That’s it. I’m never truthful, am I?’

Illusions don’t work. I knew I was disposable. They killed saints. They’d not think twice about me.

She glanced about the street. It was off Little Britain, where Wesley knelt praying for a miracle when his sister was trapped in a burning house. (A brave workman clambered in and rescued her as Wesley praised God, religion doing its usual fraud.)

‘Come back, Lovejoy. I’ll hear what you have to say.’

Looking as if I was suspicious, I gave in. ‘OK. Ten minutes. I have a train to catch.’

Arona got her coat. We went to sit in St Botolph Without – its proper name. I proved my sincerity by putting some gelt in the box. I love the old place. Baby John Keats was baptised in its font, which I always touch, hoping his gentleness will rub off on me.

Gentleness hasn’t reached me yet, but there you go.