like watercolours. You store acrylics on kitchen cooking paper in an airtight sandwich box.’
What the swine meant was, could I have done the whole painting in the night that fast with acrylic paints instead of oils. And what I meant was, whenever I’d painted the fake Klee, I’d used slow-drying oil paints. I hammered it home.
‘If I’d had to fake a painting fast, I’d have used egg tempera. Except I’ve no money to buy fresh eggs,’ I added pointedly for Florida’s sake.
‘But you can’t remove that. Am I right?’
‘Hire me for a lesson. I’m going in. Thank you all for coming.’
‘Allow me to present myself, madame,’ Prince was saying as I left them to it. ‘I am His Royal Highness ...’ et regal cetera.
So Florida knew Summer. What with Barko and now Florida’s bloke leaving police employment the Plod would be pretty shorthanded. I dried myself on an old shirt, and rolled into bed. I would have slept, but Summer walked in.
‘Lovejoy? Were you marauding during the night?’
‘No,’ I said, muffled. ‘Sod off.’
He flicked the bedclothes off me. I grabbed, hauled them up.
‘Not Albansham Priory? Stealing paintings?’
‘If you can find it, we’ll split the proceeds, OK?’ I glowered up from my pillow, one-eyed.
‘It?’ he asked smoothly. ‘I said paintingzzz. Plural. You said paintinggg.’
Wearily I sat up. ‘How the hell can I know what you’re on about if you don’t tell me? I worked until all hours. Ask the milkman. Ask Jill the postie.’ I’d made sure of it, calling out to each at six-thirty.
‘I believe that bit, Lovejoy.’ And as I sank thankfully back into my pit, ‘Gesso’s your pal, right?’
‘I used to know him. Why?’
‘You’ve not the skill to burgle Albansham Priory alone, Lovejoy. I have reason to believe Gesso visited there last night. Someone stole a work of art.’
‘Get after them, then. And good luck.’
‘There you go again, Lovejoy,’ he said. ‘I implied one burglar. You said them. Why?’
‘Because I’m half asleep,’ I said nastily, and flopped down. Dozing, I heard him and Florida talking, mutter mutter. Prince had stopped creating. At least, I heard no more screams. After what seemed hours, I felt Florida slide in beside me. And that, said Alice, was that.
From the Antiques Arcade I phoned Albansham Priory.
‘I am sorry,’ some nun said. ‘But the prior is supervising the closure.’
‘Whose closure? What closure?’ I bleated.
‘Our Order goes into retreat in two days.’
Retreat is contemplation and silent prayer. I knew this, from a misspent childhood. To a priory, it’s a time of holiness and uselessness all round.
‘Does that mean he goes away?’
‘Our Order disperses to different convents and monasteries. Prior Metivier has his own private devotions.’ She paused. ‘It is not a holiday, sir.’
‘No, no. I can see that doing ..That doing sod all was praiseworthy? I ended weakly, ‘Look, er, nun. The prior asked me to ring Miss Metivier.’
‘I’m afraid she is busy with the constables. We suffered an intruder.’
Condolences. I rang off, and stepped two paces to my right to cadge some tea and toasted tea cakes from Jutta, who runs the Antiques Arcade cafe. The caff’s only an electric kettle and a wonky toaster that chars your bread down one side. It’s bring-your-own-mug and pay a penny a slice. There’s nowhere to sit. Jutta knows what love is.
‘Phoning Albansham Priory, Lovejoy?’
Thank heavens she’d heard. I’d bawled myself hoarse, making sure.
Jutta’s a bonny lass who, like many, wastes her life lingering in unrequited love. She’s fortyish, plumping up like they do at that age. She has fetching dimples you could bath in and merry eyes that always look young. Her hair is so long she has to sweep it out of the way to sit down. It flies about even when there’s no wind and covers you in bed. When she rolls on you you’re like inside a canopy. I like Jutta.
For twenty years
What the swine meant was, could I have done the whole painting in the night that fast with acrylic paints instead of oils. And what I meant was, whenever I’d painted the fake Klee, I’d used slow-drying oil paints. I hammered it home.
‘If I’d had to fake a painting fast, I’d have used egg tempera. Except I’ve no money to buy fresh eggs,’ I added pointedly for Florida’s sake.
‘But you can’t remove that. Am I right?’
‘Hire me for a lesson. I’m going in. Thank you all for coming.’
‘Allow me to present myself, madame,’ Prince was saying as I left them to it. ‘I am His Royal Highness ...’ et regal cetera.
So Florida knew Summer. What with Barko and now Florida’s bloke leaving police employment the Plod would be pretty shorthanded. I dried myself on an old shirt, and rolled into bed. I would have slept, but Summer walked in.
‘Lovejoy? Were you marauding during the night?’
‘No,’ I said, muffled. ‘Sod off.’
He flicked the bedclothes off me. I grabbed, hauled them up.
‘Not Albansham Priory? Stealing paintings?’
‘If you can find it, we’ll split the proceeds, OK?’ I glowered up from my pillow, one-eyed.
‘It?’ he asked smoothly. ‘I said paintingzzz. Plural. You said paintinggg.’
Wearily I sat up. ‘How the hell can I know what you’re on about if you don’t tell me? I worked until all hours. Ask the milkman. Ask Jill the postie.’ I’d made sure of it, calling out to each at six-thirty.
‘I believe that bit, Lovejoy.’ And as I sank thankfully back into my pit, ‘Gesso’s your pal, right?’
‘I used to know him. Why?’
‘You’ve not the skill to burgle Albansham Priory alone, Lovejoy. I have reason to believe Gesso visited there last night. Someone stole a work of art.’
‘Get after them, then. And good luck.’
‘There you go again, Lovejoy,’ he said. ‘I implied one burglar. You said them. Why?’
‘Because I’m half asleep,’ I said nastily, and flopped down. Dozing, I heard him and Florida talking, mutter mutter. Prince had stopped creating. At least, I heard no more screams. After what seemed hours, I felt Florida slide in beside me. And that, said Alice, was that.
From the Antiques Arcade I phoned Albansham Priory.
‘I am sorry,’ some nun said. ‘But the prior is supervising the closure.’
‘Whose closure? What closure?’ I bleated.
‘Our Order goes into retreat in two days.’
Retreat is contemplation and silent prayer. I knew this, from a misspent childhood. To a priory, it’s a time of holiness and uselessness all round.
‘Does that mean he goes away?’
‘Our Order disperses to different convents and monasteries. Prior Metivier has his own private devotions.’ She paused. ‘It is not a holiday, sir.’
‘No, no. I can see that doing ..That doing sod all was praiseworthy? I ended weakly, ‘Look, er, nun. The prior asked me to ring Miss Metivier.’
‘I’m afraid she is busy with the constables. We suffered an intruder.’
Condolences. I rang off, and stepped two paces to my right to cadge some tea and toasted tea cakes from Jutta, who runs the Antiques Arcade cafe. The caff’s only an electric kettle and a wonky toaster that chars your bread down one side. It’s bring-your-own-mug and pay a penny a slice. There’s nowhere to sit. Jutta knows what love is.
‘Phoning Albansham Priory, Lovejoy?’
Thank heavens she’d heard. I’d bawled myself hoarse, making sure.
Jutta’s a bonny lass who, like many, wastes her life lingering in unrequited love. She’s fortyish, plumping up like they do at that age. She has fetching dimples you could bath in and merry eyes that always look young. Her hair is so long she has to sweep it out of the way to sit down. It flies about even when there’s no wind and covers you in bed. When she rolls on you you’re like inside a canopy. I like Jutta.
For twenty years
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