was exactly the same as mine about all antiques. Thinking, this quiet grey morning, he seemed close. After all, I reasoned uncomfortably, all antiques only start off a piece of wood, stone, marble or a few pigments mixed with oiland brushed on to rough old canvas, don’t they? Henry was right in a sense. The love you work into a thing gives it life. On the bus I decided I’d help the CID with reluctance, but getting blown up like Henry was not part of my plan.
I was in the George by opening time.
Chapter 9
M ARGARET D AINTY HAD come from kindness. She is one of the slower age-drifters. She might be twenty-five or fifty, but that plump allure’s still there. Hair deceptively casual, always looks a little dressy and overgroomed, but maybe that’s because younger women have this crummy modern fashion of looking shopsoiled.
Margaret comes from an old army family, the sort that thinks drinking before dusk’s unpatriotic, sinful and stirs up the natives. I don’t, so I got some cheap white wine and started on the urgent job of restoring my nerves. We sat overlooking the crowded pavement through the leaded window. Elizabeth I seated herself precisely in the same spot once upon a time, gazing over the selfsame street. And fifteen centuries before that Claudius the God had ridden past in triumph. I love the human connection – was Bess tired, did she put her feet up? Did Claudius have difficulty keeping his laurel wreath on while his war elephants swayed ahead of his legions?
‘Eh?’ – Margaret was saying something. ‘You shouldn’t have risked trouble last night.’
‘There was no trouble,’ I said guardedly. Maybe she’d seen Betty follow me from the White Hart.
‘The Sykes boys. And what did the CID want?’
‘A football result,’ I told her, avoiding her eyes.
‘Be careful, Lovejoy.’
‘You know me,’ I said reassuringly.
We sipped and gazed out. Jimmo walked past carrying a long slender canvas bag and a basket.
‘Jimmo’s come up in the world,’ Margaret smiled. ‘A new two-tone motorcar.’
I stared. He’d been broke a couple of days ago.
Margaret smiled happily, always pleased at the success of others. She’s unique. That’s his new craze.’
‘The car?’ It had been in a salesman’s window yesterday.
‘No. Fishing.’ She was suddenly watching my face. ‘What is it, Lovejoy? You’re all on edge.’
Well, you can’t help wondering, can you? Fishing equals a river, which equals Stour, which yesterday had been disturbed by a savage explosion in which an old dreamer got transmuted. And a couple of drunken bums laughing and getting sloshed in a barge on a quiet river reach tend to converse loudly. An angler who happened to be an eager antiques dealer might have heard . . . No. I shook the thought off. We’d known Jimmo for years.
Maybe it was a mistake but I found myself telling Margaret about old Henry, the explosion. Mel and Sandy giving me a lift and Henry’s daft request. So she wouldn’t assume I’d gone bananas I didn’t admit he thought he’d actually got the Grail. I said nothing about Jimmo. She was commiserating when Tinker showed.
‘How do, Lovejoy, Margaret.’
‘Morning, Tinker. All ready?’
He came belching, still wiping his accumulated egg stains from his stubble with greasy mitten. I waved a pint over. First things first.
‘Sure, Lovejoy.’
‘One thing, Tinker. Just seen Jimmo, off fishing. Where’s he go?’
‘Oh, Stour, Layer Pits, down the estuary sometimes.’ He gave me a theatrical nudge, winking. ‘On the rebound. Broke off with that dollybird called Dolly.’ He chuckled. ‘Get it? Dolly, dollybird?’ That was news. So Dolly and Jimmo . . .
‘A superb play on words, Tinker.’ I waited gravely for his creaks of laughter to subside. There’s nothing you can do about some people. ‘Sudden wealth, eh?’
‘New car,’ Tinker agreed, gazing soulfully into his empty glass. I got him another to prevent a relapse.
‘How come? Jimmo
I was in the George by opening time.
Chapter 9
M ARGARET D AINTY HAD come from kindness. She is one of the slower age-drifters. She might be twenty-five or fifty, but that plump allure’s still there. Hair deceptively casual, always looks a little dressy and overgroomed, but maybe that’s because younger women have this crummy modern fashion of looking shopsoiled.
Margaret comes from an old army family, the sort that thinks drinking before dusk’s unpatriotic, sinful and stirs up the natives. I don’t, so I got some cheap white wine and started on the urgent job of restoring my nerves. We sat overlooking the crowded pavement through the leaded window. Elizabeth I seated herself precisely in the same spot once upon a time, gazing over the selfsame street. And fifteen centuries before that Claudius the God had ridden past in triumph. I love the human connection – was Bess tired, did she put her feet up? Did Claudius have difficulty keeping his laurel wreath on while his war elephants swayed ahead of his legions?
‘Eh?’ – Margaret was saying something. ‘You shouldn’t have risked trouble last night.’
‘There was no trouble,’ I said guardedly. Maybe she’d seen Betty follow me from the White Hart.
‘The Sykes boys. And what did the CID want?’
‘A football result,’ I told her, avoiding her eyes.
‘Be careful, Lovejoy.’
‘You know me,’ I said reassuringly.
We sipped and gazed out. Jimmo walked past carrying a long slender canvas bag and a basket.
‘Jimmo’s come up in the world,’ Margaret smiled. ‘A new two-tone motorcar.’
I stared. He’d been broke a couple of days ago.
Margaret smiled happily, always pleased at the success of others. She’s unique. That’s his new craze.’
‘The car?’ It had been in a salesman’s window yesterday.
‘No. Fishing.’ She was suddenly watching my face. ‘What is it, Lovejoy? You’re all on edge.’
Well, you can’t help wondering, can you? Fishing equals a river, which equals Stour, which yesterday had been disturbed by a savage explosion in which an old dreamer got transmuted. And a couple of drunken bums laughing and getting sloshed in a barge on a quiet river reach tend to converse loudly. An angler who happened to be an eager antiques dealer might have heard . . . No. I shook the thought off. We’d known Jimmo for years.
Maybe it was a mistake but I found myself telling Margaret about old Henry, the explosion. Mel and Sandy giving me a lift and Henry’s daft request. So she wouldn’t assume I’d gone bananas I didn’t admit he thought he’d actually got the Grail. I said nothing about Jimmo. She was commiserating when Tinker showed.
‘How do, Lovejoy, Margaret.’
‘Morning, Tinker. All ready?’
He came belching, still wiping his accumulated egg stains from his stubble with greasy mitten. I waved a pint over. First things first.
‘Sure, Lovejoy.’
‘One thing, Tinker. Just seen Jimmo, off fishing. Where’s he go?’
‘Oh, Stour, Layer Pits, down the estuary sometimes.’ He gave me a theatrical nudge, winking. ‘On the rebound. Broke off with that dollybird called Dolly.’ He chuckled. ‘Get it? Dolly, dollybird?’ That was news. So Dolly and Jimmo . . .
‘A superb play on words, Tinker.’ I waited gravely for his creaks of laughter to subside. There’s nothing you can do about some people. ‘Sudden wealth, eh?’
‘New car,’ Tinker agreed, gazing soulfully into his empty glass. I got him another to prevent a relapse.
‘How come? Jimmo
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