drew breath.
‘There’s something wrong in Gallery Six. A Davenport in the central display.’
‘But the Davenport’s beautiful.’ Margaret halted abruptly when I gave her the bent eye.
‘It’s an excellent piece of work,’ Lydia said. ‘Lovely. The texture’s almost right and the colour’s exquisite.’Her eyes were glowing now behind her bottle lenses. ‘Somebody has created it with such, well, feeling. But it is modern, not an antique.’
‘Sure?’ I said.
‘Yes.’ She examined her hands and said nothing.
‘What tipped you off?’ You have to be ruthless at this stage.
‘I just don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘The poor thing. So beautiful, yet basically a . . . well, just a trick, isn’t it?’
I gazed at her in silence for a moment. Tinker gave me her answer paper, a lined sheet torn from a spring notebook. Eight out of twelve right. Only an average knowledge, but knowledge is only a small percentage of knowing after all.
‘Have a look at this.’ I gave her a dazzling little 1598 leatherbound copy of John Wylie’s madrigals. Margaret had lent it. Lydia flipped it carefully, guessing it was special from my handling, but clearly bemused.
‘An old book.’ Quite lost. ‘Is it genuine?’
‘Yes. Rare. Superb. Brilliant.’
‘Oh. I’m afraid I know so little –’
‘He was inspired by an illicit love affair. Lady Mary of St Osyth. They were always at it.’ Lydia hastily dropped the book, reddening. ‘You win,’ I said. ‘Look, love. If you come to learn from me you work like a dog as and when I say. I’ll take you on for three months, then I might give you the push. No wages. A share in a nonexistent profit. No expenses. No grumbling. And no comeback if I sling you out before time because I suddenly take umbrage.’ She listened, still as a squirrel. ‘Everything else comes second to antiques. And one last point. I don’t like criticism.’ I waited. ‘Well?’
She nodded breathlessly. ‘Am I . . . taken on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Col will be so disappointed,’ she said sorrowfully, her eyes filling with tears. ‘He was so thrilled, brimming with expectation.’ Oh-ho, I thought. No tears for Angharad, only for Col.
Tinker. Find Col and Angharad and tell them sorry.’ Tinker nodded and started draining his pint glass.
‘Margaret, would you explain basic survival? I want a word with Maslow.’
Lydia rose, figure meticulously tidy and handbag on guard. ‘Thank you, Lovejoy,’ she said politely. ‘As your apprentice, I shall endeavour to fulfil whatever promise you see in me, and perform –’
I got up and kissed her cheek and Margaret’s.
‘Welcome, love. Meet me on the gallery in thirty minutes.’
‘Lovejoy!’ she was starting up indignantly, but Margaret hastily whisked her out as Maslow came over.
‘Wherever I go you’re grilling young ladies in some tavern,’ he quipped.
‘A merry jest, Maslow.’
‘Still in that public-spirited mood of co-operation, I see, Lovejoy.’ He knew he was nettling me. ‘Betty any good?’
I ignored that. We sat facing across the narrow table like gamblers. Nan was round in the other bar. It was too early for the regulars. Just me and this nerk.
I asked, ‘Well? Who killed the old geezer in the boat?’
‘Which is where we left off,’ he prompted. ‘What makes you think he was killed deliberately?’
‘No fuel. No gas. No explosives.’ These pedantic civil servants really get me. ‘Does that add up to kerboom at the police college?’
‘Boats have stoves, and petrol, oil. Old boozers drop matches.’
‘Immovable boats don’t.’
He shook his head and wagged his finger. It took all my self-control not to break it off. ‘Engine-driven boats are always movable, Lovejoy,’ he explained as if to an imbecile. ‘A flick of a wrist to cast off. The North Sea,’ he said, ramming it home, ‘isn’t all that far downstream.’
The bleeder actually sneered as he poked my collarbone with his pipestem. These
‘There’s something wrong in Gallery Six. A Davenport in the central display.’
‘But the Davenport’s beautiful.’ Margaret halted abruptly when I gave her the bent eye.
‘It’s an excellent piece of work,’ Lydia said. ‘Lovely. The texture’s almost right and the colour’s exquisite.’Her eyes were glowing now behind her bottle lenses. ‘Somebody has created it with such, well, feeling. But it is modern, not an antique.’
‘Sure?’ I said.
‘Yes.’ She examined her hands and said nothing.
‘What tipped you off?’ You have to be ruthless at this stage.
‘I just don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘The poor thing. So beautiful, yet basically a . . . well, just a trick, isn’t it?’
I gazed at her in silence for a moment. Tinker gave me her answer paper, a lined sheet torn from a spring notebook. Eight out of twelve right. Only an average knowledge, but knowledge is only a small percentage of knowing after all.
‘Have a look at this.’ I gave her a dazzling little 1598 leatherbound copy of John Wylie’s madrigals. Margaret had lent it. Lydia flipped it carefully, guessing it was special from my handling, but clearly bemused.
‘An old book.’ Quite lost. ‘Is it genuine?’
‘Yes. Rare. Superb. Brilliant.’
‘Oh. I’m afraid I know so little –’
‘He was inspired by an illicit love affair. Lady Mary of St Osyth. They were always at it.’ Lydia hastily dropped the book, reddening. ‘You win,’ I said. ‘Look, love. If you come to learn from me you work like a dog as and when I say. I’ll take you on for three months, then I might give you the push. No wages. A share in a nonexistent profit. No expenses. No grumbling. And no comeback if I sling you out before time because I suddenly take umbrage.’ She listened, still as a squirrel. ‘Everything else comes second to antiques. And one last point. I don’t like criticism.’ I waited. ‘Well?’
She nodded breathlessly. ‘Am I . . . taken on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Col will be so disappointed,’ she said sorrowfully, her eyes filling with tears. ‘He was so thrilled, brimming with expectation.’ Oh-ho, I thought. No tears for Angharad, only for Col.
Tinker. Find Col and Angharad and tell them sorry.’ Tinker nodded and started draining his pint glass.
‘Margaret, would you explain basic survival? I want a word with Maslow.’
Lydia rose, figure meticulously tidy and handbag on guard. ‘Thank you, Lovejoy,’ she said politely. ‘As your apprentice, I shall endeavour to fulfil whatever promise you see in me, and perform –’
I got up and kissed her cheek and Margaret’s.
‘Welcome, love. Meet me on the gallery in thirty minutes.’
‘Lovejoy!’ she was starting up indignantly, but Margaret hastily whisked her out as Maslow came over.
‘Wherever I go you’re grilling young ladies in some tavern,’ he quipped.
‘A merry jest, Maslow.’
‘Still in that public-spirited mood of co-operation, I see, Lovejoy.’ He knew he was nettling me. ‘Betty any good?’
I ignored that. We sat facing across the narrow table like gamblers. Nan was round in the other bar. It was too early for the regulars. Just me and this nerk.
I asked, ‘Well? Who killed the old geezer in the boat?’
‘Which is where we left off,’ he prompted. ‘What makes you think he was killed deliberately?’
‘No fuel. No gas. No explosives.’ These pedantic civil servants really get me. ‘Does that add up to kerboom at the police college?’
‘Boats have stoves, and petrol, oil. Old boozers drop matches.’
‘Immovable boats don’t.’
He shook his head and wagged his finger. It took all my self-control not to break it off. ‘Engine-driven boats are always movable, Lovejoy,’ he explained as if to an imbecile. ‘A flick of a wrist to cast off. The North Sea,’ he said, ramming it home, ‘isn’t all that far downstream.’
The bleeder actually sneered as he poked my collarbone with his pipestem. These
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