'Morning."
Next knock, I resignedly took my breakfast. Geoffrey, my favourite constable, in uniform, puffing from having
freewheeled down the lane.
"How do, beau gendarme. Running me in?"
"No, Lovejoy." He took my pint of tea and swigged. I
waited, feeling really down. This was clearly one of those days, if not several
all at once. "Your case comes up next Tuesday. You're for it. Old Arthur's
on the bench. Raymond's testified it was you arranged it, not him. Ledger's had
you booked. Cheers." He returned my empty mug, plodded off.
"Cheers, Geoffrey." I noshed my fried bread where I was
standing in the porch, to save bother. Old Arthur's a homely magistrate
knocking ninety, with the forgiving qualities of Torquemada with gripe. For it,
right enough.
Needless to say, birds thronged in from the bright blue yonder to
scrounge. Blue tits drilled into the morning's milk while I was feeding them my
fried bread, thieving little swine. I only had to wait five minutes, in the cold
though, before a car zoomed in, size of a small liner. Here came Winstanley
with guess what.
"Lovejoy?" He was uncomfortable as he handed me an
envelope. Did an honest man's heart beat beneath that lazaroid exterior? Impossible; the nerk was an accountant.
"Good morning." He walked to the car, got in beside the
chauffeur. Sir John beckoned from a rear seat. I brushed the robin off my plate
and went indoors while he flew back to my Bramley apple tree and screeched his angry little head off—the robin, not Sir John.
Who entered, no knock, finding me rewarming my tomatoes, more in
hopes than expectation.
"No results, Lovejoy." Why don't customers come pouring
in when I've actually got some antiques?
"The contract's canceled, Sir John. You didn't pay up. In antiques,
that's default. I have numerous writs to prove it. Find somebody else."
He almost sat, scanned the shambles, and changed his mind. "A
man was killed yesterday."
"Aye. Ben Cox. They pulled me in for it."
"He was working for me, Lovejoy."
"Eh?" The frying pan congealed in fright.
"Like you. I owed him a retainer two days ago."
"Maybe not getting paid is a survival factor." No laugh
from Sir John. I swallowed and asked the inevitable. "And was George
Prentiss? His last stand was on your map."
He paused at the door. "Everything I know is summarized in
the envelope, Lovejoy."
I was surprised he didn't charge me for it. "Send my check by
post." I got a tea bag into the mug, my hand shaking. "Except
Thursday. Our post girl steals everything Thursdays."
"Good luck, Lovejoy. Oh, one thing." I was turned away.
So everybody seeking Roman bronzes for Sir John was getting buried these days.
Me next? I thought, not bloody likely. I was getting out from under. "That
forgery," Sir John continued, trying to be Noel Coward casual. "Is it
the Girtin sketch?"
"Quite possibly," I said. "But possibly means
possibly not. So don't chuck it away in case, will you?"
My porch door slammed enough to blow the cottage's reed thatch
back to its parent marshes down the estuary. I grinned, got back to my grub,
and mangled a whole mouthful, honestly. I was thrilled, sloshing it around and
actually tasting the grub. Oh, relish! Sykes arrived at the second swallow. He
was standing in the porch when wearily I opened the door and sagged there, all
attention. Three somber goons stood in the background. It was that scene from
Alexander Nevsky , macabre knights among the ruins.
" 'Morning, Lovejoy. You've had a lot of visitors."
" 'Morning, Sykie. Yes, a few."
"Lovejoy. No dropping out just because a bloke got topped in
St. Edmundsbury. Right?"
"Right, Sykie."
"And no buggering about with all these tarts, old son. My
lads say your pit's like a Saturday hair parlor. Get on with the job.
Follow?"
"Yes, Sykie."
So much for resolution. Still, nothing wrong with failure, as long
as you don't take it seriously. I mean, it was a failed insurance underwriter
who in 1785 decided to found The Times .
They left, the goons
Next knock, I resignedly took my breakfast. Geoffrey, my favourite constable, in uniform, puffing from having
freewheeled down the lane.
"How do, beau gendarme. Running me in?"
"No, Lovejoy." He took my pint of tea and swigged. I
waited, feeling really down. This was clearly one of those days, if not several
all at once. "Your case comes up next Tuesday. You're for it. Old Arthur's
on the bench. Raymond's testified it was you arranged it, not him. Ledger's had
you booked. Cheers." He returned my empty mug, plodded off.
"Cheers, Geoffrey." I noshed my fried bread where I was
standing in the porch, to save bother. Old Arthur's a homely magistrate
knocking ninety, with the forgiving qualities of Torquemada with gripe. For it,
right enough.
Needless to say, birds thronged in from the bright blue yonder to
scrounge. Blue tits drilled into the morning's milk while I was feeding them my
fried bread, thieving little swine. I only had to wait five minutes, in the cold
though, before a car zoomed in, size of a small liner. Here came Winstanley
with guess what.
"Lovejoy?" He was uncomfortable as he handed me an
envelope. Did an honest man's heart beat beneath that lazaroid exterior? Impossible; the nerk was an accountant.
"Good morning." He walked to the car, got in beside the
chauffeur. Sir John beckoned from a rear seat. I brushed the robin off my plate
and went indoors while he flew back to my Bramley apple tree and screeched his angry little head off—the robin, not Sir John.
Who entered, no knock, finding me rewarming my tomatoes, more in
hopes than expectation.
"No results, Lovejoy." Why don't customers come pouring
in when I've actually got some antiques?
"The contract's canceled, Sir John. You didn't pay up. In antiques,
that's default. I have numerous writs to prove it. Find somebody else."
He almost sat, scanned the shambles, and changed his mind. "A
man was killed yesterday."
"Aye. Ben Cox. They pulled me in for it."
"He was working for me, Lovejoy."
"Eh?" The frying pan congealed in fright.
"Like you. I owed him a retainer two days ago."
"Maybe not getting paid is a survival factor." No laugh
from Sir John. I swallowed and asked the inevitable. "And was George
Prentiss? His last stand was on your map."
He paused at the door. "Everything I know is summarized in
the envelope, Lovejoy."
I was surprised he didn't charge me for it. "Send my check by
post." I got a tea bag into the mug, my hand shaking. "Except
Thursday. Our post girl steals everything Thursdays."
"Good luck, Lovejoy. Oh, one thing." I was turned away.
So everybody seeking Roman bronzes for Sir John was getting buried these days.
Me next? I thought, not bloody likely. I was getting out from under. "That
forgery," Sir John continued, trying to be Noel Coward casual. "Is it
the Girtin sketch?"
"Quite possibly," I said. "But possibly means
possibly not. So don't chuck it away in case, will you?"
My porch door slammed enough to blow the cottage's reed thatch
back to its parent marshes down the estuary. I grinned, got back to my grub,
and mangled a whole mouthful, honestly. I was thrilled, sloshing it around and
actually tasting the grub. Oh, relish! Sykes arrived at the second swallow. He
was standing in the porch when wearily I opened the door and sagged there, all
attention. Three somber goons stood in the background. It was that scene from
Alexander Nevsky , macabre knights among the ruins.
" 'Morning, Lovejoy. You've had a lot of visitors."
" 'Morning, Sykie. Yes, a few."
"Lovejoy. No dropping out just because a bloke got topped in
St. Edmundsbury. Right?"
"Right, Sykie."
"And no buggering about with all these tarts, old son. My
lads say your pit's like a Saturday hair parlor. Get on with the job.
Follow?"
"Yes, Sykie."
So much for resolution. Still, nothing wrong with failure, as long
as you don't take it seriously. I mean, it was a failed insurance underwriter
who in 1785 decided to found The Times .
They left, the goons
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