Firefly Gadroon (25 page)

It must have been less than half an hour but when finally the sounds ceased I couldn’t believe that my private blissful eternity had come to an end. The silver had spun the last time, and now hung there. I dropped the last hammer and sat there looking. The furnace flickered and darted colour off the silver surface. Its margin was indented now, the firefly design meeting exactly in its brilliant dance round the edge. The distances were right. The small markings where the design had to be fetched into precise line were there. It was magical, as beautiful as any gadroon design I had ever seen. And it was a reverse design, the most difficult of all. Done blind, guessing exactly for every one of the several hundred glittering impressions.

I had done it. I found I was drooping over the bench,
wheezing like my old leather bellows. The exaltation left me gradually. I got all my creaks back. I straightened and turned to place the dish on the sand tray, ready for its three silver ball-and-claw feet.

Tinker was at the pub when I phoned and told him to bring the big Yank urgently, tell him I’d done the Reverse Gadroon. Dolly and me sat waiting on the divan.

She knew there was something wrong. I suppose I’d led her on a bit, for the sake of peace. I decided now was the time.

‘They’ll come for me soon, love,’ I told her. ‘There’s an order out for me. I’ll have to go with them.’

‘But for how long, darling?’ Dolly was instantly worried about socks and things for me to take. She’s great. I had to grin.

‘Some time,’ I said. I told her about the silver dish in the garage. ‘Tell Tinker to take it to Silver Joe and see its claw feet are put on, properly finished.’

‘Silver Joe,’ she repeated for memory’s sake.

Somebody was at the door then. It was the big Yank, the commodore whose boat I kept wrecking. He came in smiling, refusing Dolly’s coffee as he sat. I didn’t blame him because Americans are used to the proper stuff.

I said, ‘It’s too much of a coincidence that your boat was around so much, Mr Naismith. Am I right?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

I sighed. That’s all I needed, I thought wearily. This New World politeness when my world was crumbling. Despite all, he was watchful as a cat.

‘Tell me one thing. Drummer’s death.’

‘None of my doing. I’m nothing to do with that side.’

‘You’re the broker for the nicked stuff, right?’

‘That’s so, sir. Only the business side.’

I kept gamely on. ‘And your position at the yacht club’s
a front for popping the nicked antiques to the Continent. Right?’

‘Correct.’

‘I’ll tell nothing of it. But on your way out step into the garage. You’ll see a Reverse Gadroon, silver, two hundred ounces, on the hot-sand table. I’ve not time to fix its feet, but it’s handmade. By me.’

I saw his eyes widen in astonishment and he made to speak. I cut him short. He’d have to suss the rest. This wasn’t the sort of conversation that could be finished with Maslow in the room. ‘I can do it,’ I said. ‘Again and again. Drummer taught me. And they allow arts and crafts in clink, where I’m going.
You
could provide the blank cast silver bowls, dishes, anything. If there’s any difficulty tell them it’s only plated, or maybe pewter. They won’t know.’

‘I see.’ His brain was on the go. I knew he was thinking of the laws in the USA, where possession of a genuine antique silversmith’s personal marking die is quite legal. Here it’s a criminal offence. ‘I see,’ he said again.

I drew breath. ‘Er, about your boat. It wasn’t intentional. I didn’t mean to sink it. They came at me.’

‘I accept that. I’ll prefer no charges.’ He leant forwards. ‘The idea is that . . . er . . .’ he glanced at Dolly, pausing. Dolly was already packing some clothes up for me but she was in earshot. ‘Er, you might consider making some items for shipping abroad, by any means I chose?’

‘Maybe,’ I said.

‘A handmade Reverse Gadroon’s unbelievable.’

‘Check on it,’ I told him. Drummer would have been proud.

‘Can I take it with me?’ he asked.

I thought on this. Maybe he’d better, seeing I expected Maslow to put me in a cage. I nodded. ‘But I want Tinker there, until we agree a price. Silver Joe as referee?’

‘Done.’ His grin came back and we shook hands. ‘Maybe I’d better wait outside,’ he added, getting the feeling between Dolly and me.

I let him go, a nice bloke full of politeness still. I accepted his version. Nothing was further from his behaviour than aggro. He was the antiques broker for the nick trade all right. And I was sure he’d had nothing to do with the killing of Drummer, especially seeing how well he had behaved when I’d rescued Germoline that time.

Tinker came shuffling in while Dolly and I talked on the divan. She was crying and saying I could get a lawyer. I didn’t know any so I’d have to leave that side to trust. Tinker was jubilant.

‘I seed it, Lovejoy!’ He meant the gadroon. ‘Drummer’ll be smiling all over his face, Gawd rest him. And that Yank’s dancing wiv delight, mate.’

Mate. I let him prattle on for a while but I had called Devvo mate while he’d begged me for help. And I’d let Devvo drown, me and Germoline. Maybe I deserved gaol, or maybe I was just tired.

Something was on Tinker’s mind. ‘Here, Lovejoy. Did you really do for Devvo and his berks? I’ll say you was with Lemuel and me.’

I gazed back at him. The loss of his principal source of income for booze – namely, me – was practically the end of his normal everyday life, but he was still in there sticking up for me, the stupid old get. I went to look out of the window at the garden for a minute.

‘Leave it, Tinker,’ I said when I could speak the words. ‘Look after yourself while I’m in the nick. The Yank will see you get your lolly.’

‘I could tell the Old Bill we wuz at Sotheby’s.’ He was all eager, but I shook my head. Just as well I did for Tinker’s sake because just then Maslow walked in. No knock, notice.

‘Get your coat, lad,’ he said to me. ‘You’re under arrest. Among other things, for destroying a sea fortress, property of our Sovereign Monarch—’

‘Eh?’ It had damned near destroyed me, never mind the other way round. Then I remembered that ominous
crump
out to sea, and the single great swelling wave that lifted my boat . . . Oh hell. The ‘counterbalanced’ exit from the chamber must have been a destruction device. If I’d half the sense I was born with I could have worked that out.

Maslow was deliriously happy watching my face. ‘And,’ he said, grinning some more, ‘complicity in the murder of—’

‘Don’t bother,’ I said evenly. ‘I’ll come quietly.’ I’ve always wanted to say that.

I had quite a sendoff. Germoline looked at me as I went towards the police car. Our worthy Constable Jilks was there, important but embarrassed at all this. I told him it was all right, George, and not to worry. Maslow ordered me to get in, but I went across to say so long to Germoline. She was grave, thinking whatever were things coming to, but aware there wasn’t much of a way out for either of us.

I told her, ‘Germoline, I’ve made arrangements with Lemuel to take you to Mrs Hepplestone’s.’ I scratched her neck and left her there, kissed Dolly and got in between these two constables. There seemed nothing else. Dolly was weeping. Well, I wasn’t too happy either. I wound the window down.

‘Oh, love,’ I called to Dolly. ‘Count the teaspoons after these coppers have gone. Okay?’

She nodded, sniffing into a hankie. I sighed. It had been a joke. The trouble was Dolly
would
count them all, and keep a list at that. Germoline watched us go.

We rolled down the lane. I noticed the big Yank had
vanished and that his car was nowhere in sight, a shrewd nut if ever I saw one. You can’t teach the Yanks anything about running a business.

‘What the hell?’ Maslow muttered.

As our car turned towards the chapel there were two grotty figures waiting by the side of the hedge. There was hardly room for our big police motor to squeeze past. I saw the pair of them, tatty as ever, come to attention as the car cruised slowly past. Lemuel had his medals on still, and Tinker was looking his worst. The silly old fool presented arms with a stick.

Maslow had reached out furiously and wound his window down, when I leaned forwards and tapped his shoulder. Hard.

‘You dare, Maslow,’ I said softly, my hand resting casually near his neck. ‘You fucking dare.’

He paused. The two old fools were standing there at the salute, the wind flapping their tattered coats. A few of the villagers were watching in astonishment by the bus stop. Maslow looked angrily across at his apprehensive driver. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he snarled. ‘The Guards’ band? Get on, get on.’

I didn’t look at the ridiculous pair. It was hard to swallow. The car edged past and we drove off, but Maslow had the last word. They always do. By the main town road he’d recovered and was smiling at some secret success. He unleashed it as we settled down towards town.

‘One thing, Lovejoy,’ he said. ‘It’ll be hundred to one, you getting off.’

‘Them’s bad odds.’

‘Either way we’ll have you,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Oh, incidentally. One of the court’s advisers has asked personally to take your case. Social worker with a special interest.’

‘They’re all the same to me,’ I told him.

‘Really?’ he said cheerfully. ‘Tell you one thing. The last thing I’d want is five years’ court probation in Maud’s tender loving care.’

Maud?
That cannibal? I croaked, ‘Maslow, you wouldn’t . . .’

‘Wouldn’t I, Lovejoy?’

‘Look, Maslow. Please . . .
please
. . .’

The swine said nothing. He just laughed and laughed and laughed, and we drove on to town.