brilliant newness to a
century-old opalescence—
"Sceeeeech!"
"Sorry, mate." I'd reached out for the red tin in which
I keep my McArthur microscope and inadvertently got the robin. "Well,
you're both red. Same size. No need to carry on like that." I put the
disgruntled robin back on the bench. It stood dusting itself down, glowering.
The red tin was almost exactly the same color as the robin. Not far from a
Carpaccio red, actually.
I stood looking. Red.
The robin was the same size as the miniature microscope's tin can,
which had luckily been just right to hold the instrument. But so what?
"So the same holds good for picture frames, right?" I
said to the robin. "Sizes count as well as colors."
It cheeped in a rage and flicked onto my shoulder, so I got the
message. Time for the idle little sod's biscuit. I sighed and turned to go in
for one.
"What does a robin know about picture frames. Lovejoy?"
The light was draining fast from the day. Odd, though, that
Caterina should be framed the way she was in the sun's last glim. Some women
are enough to stop a man's breath without even trying. Things conspire.
"Eh?" I said, cool.
"What picture frame? You just told the bird."
'That conversation was private."
She came in and walked round the chair. "You're restoring it.
Nice. Late Regency?"
"Early Lovejoy." That shook her, made her think a
minute. "Your killer's got a posh car, Caterina. I'll bet he earned it by
doing fakes nearly as good, eh?"
The robin cackled and flew off in a sulk. No biscuit. I shouted
after it, "Give you two tomorrow," and explained to her, "He'll
be in a hell of a temper all week now. That's your fault. Trouble is, he
suspects blackbirds. One knows how to undo the catch on my breadbin, and the
robin's not tall enough. Gets him mad."
"Did you say my killer?" She'd gone all still.
"You know, the murderer you go about with." I was all
affable. 'The DeLorean. Old lemon shirt." I spoke quite conversationally
and started tidying up. "He owns the Eveline ,
does he?"
Still and pale all of a sudden, so I'd struck oil. "I knew
you'd be trouble, Lovejoy. How did you guess?"
"The frame on that Webster seascape in your granddad's
hallway. You tried to lend that Carpaccio fake some authenticity by putting it
in an old frame before sending it to the auction. Then you realized your
mistake. Granddad missed it, so you had to try to buy it back. Something like
that?"
"Nearly. But go on."
"Feet." I began to sweep round the chair. She moved her
feet obediently, watching, listening. "Mr. Malleson went bid-happy and got
the fake against your bids. So you had him and Crampie killed by your tame
murderer, naughty girl. You told him to make it look like a routine motorway
cafe rumble." I emptied the workshop dust into the plastic bin and looked
round for her verdict.
"Almost, Lovejoy."
"Only almost?" I was so bloody sure.
There was a trace of bitterness when she spoke, but it was Crampie
and Mr. Malleson got done, not her. "You obviously think the worst of
me."
"Almost, Caterina," I said evenly, and went past her to
switch the outside light on.
"You won't go to the police, Lovejoy." No question
there, only the assured flat statement of a bird in charge of everything which
intruded into her world. "They already suspect you of any antique crimes.
They wouldn't listen to your wild suppositions."
So she had changed my accurate logic into wild suppositions. I
held the shed door for her to walk out, and locked up. We stood in the
darkening garden, each waiting for the other to speak.
"Your mistrust means you won't work for my grandfather, I
suppose?"
"Correct."
Oddly, she drooped as if accepting a still heavier burden.
"Then that's the end of it," she said resignedly. "Can you be
trusted to take no further action?"
"Where my skin's concerned, yes. But just remember, if my
robin goes off his grub, it's your fault. And I can be very narked."
"Are you never serious, Lovejoy?"
"Lady," I said wearily, "I'm serious all
century-old opalescence—
"Sceeeeech!"
"Sorry, mate." I'd reached out for the red tin in which
I keep my McArthur microscope and inadvertently got the robin. "Well,
you're both red. Same size. No need to carry on like that." I put the
disgruntled robin back on the bench. It stood dusting itself down, glowering.
The red tin was almost exactly the same color as the robin. Not far from a
Carpaccio red, actually.
I stood looking. Red.
The robin was the same size as the miniature microscope's tin can,
which had luckily been just right to hold the instrument. But so what?
"So the same holds good for picture frames, right?" I
said to the robin. "Sizes count as well as colors."
It cheeped in a rage and flicked onto my shoulder, so I got the
message. Time for the idle little sod's biscuit. I sighed and turned to go in
for one.
"What does a robin know about picture frames. Lovejoy?"
The light was draining fast from the day. Odd, though, that
Caterina should be framed the way she was in the sun's last glim. Some women
are enough to stop a man's breath without even trying. Things conspire.
"Eh?" I said, cool.
"What picture frame? You just told the bird."
'That conversation was private."
She came in and walked round the chair. "You're restoring it.
Nice. Late Regency?"
"Early Lovejoy." That shook her, made her think a
minute. "Your killer's got a posh car, Caterina. I'll bet he earned it by
doing fakes nearly as good, eh?"
The robin cackled and flew off in a sulk. No biscuit. I shouted
after it, "Give you two tomorrow," and explained to her, "He'll
be in a hell of a temper all week now. That's your fault. Trouble is, he
suspects blackbirds. One knows how to undo the catch on my breadbin, and the
robin's not tall enough. Gets him mad."
"Did you say my killer?" She'd gone all still.
"You know, the murderer you go about with." I was all
affable. 'The DeLorean. Old lemon shirt." I spoke quite conversationally
and started tidying up. "He owns the Eveline ,
does he?"
Still and pale all of a sudden, so I'd struck oil. "I knew
you'd be trouble, Lovejoy. How did you guess?"
"The frame on that Webster seascape in your granddad's
hallway. You tried to lend that Carpaccio fake some authenticity by putting it
in an old frame before sending it to the auction. Then you realized your
mistake. Granddad missed it, so you had to try to buy it back. Something like
that?"
"Nearly. But go on."
"Feet." I began to sweep round the chair. She moved her
feet obediently, watching, listening. "Mr. Malleson went bid-happy and got
the fake against your bids. So you had him and Crampie killed by your tame
murderer, naughty girl. You told him to make it look like a routine motorway
cafe rumble." I emptied the workshop dust into the plastic bin and looked
round for her verdict.
"Almost, Lovejoy."
"Only almost?" I was so bloody sure.
There was a trace of bitterness when she spoke, but it was Crampie
and Mr. Malleson got done, not her. "You obviously think the worst of
me."
"Almost, Caterina," I said evenly, and went past her to
switch the outside light on.
"You won't go to the police, Lovejoy." No question
there, only the assured flat statement of a bird in charge of everything which
intruded into her world. "They already suspect you of any antique crimes.
They wouldn't listen to your wild suppositions."
So she had changed my accurate logic into wild suppositions. I
held the shed door for her to walk out, and locked up. We stood in the
darkening garden, each waiting for the other to speak.
"Your mistrust means you won't work for my grandfather, I
suppose?"
"Correct."
Oddly, she drooped as if accepting a still heavier burden.
"Then that's the end of it," she said resignedly. "Can you be
trusted to take no further action?"
"Where my skin's concerned, yes. But just remember, if my
robin goes off his grub, it's your fault. And I can be very narked."
"Are you never serious, Lovejoy?"
"Lady," I said wearily, "I'm serious all
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