for
himself. Connie leaned away as he shuffled back. Some days he's worse than
others.
"Eh? I told you anything Venetian, Tinker, you burke."
"Don't blame me, Lovejoy. Worn my bleeding feet orf, I
have." He slurped his pint dry and spoke with feeling. 'There's not a
single frigging Venetian antique—real, fake, nicked, bent, or just passing
through—in the whole frigging Eastern Hundreds."
He rose to shamble off for another pint. "Ted," I called
to the barman wearily, "keep one coming or we'll be here all day." I
beamed a rather worried look at Connie, because she'd have to pay and I owed
her a fortune already. By her reckoning, I possibly owed very, very much more.
Quickly sensing she was one up, she immediately asked Ted to stop the drafts,
which were positively whistling through the pub, and to please turn up the
heating while he was at it and put more logs on the fire.
I concentrated. "None? That's impossible. Tinker."
"I know, Lovejoy. It's bleeding true. I went down Brad's,
Ernie's, Jessica's on Mersea Island . . ."
With Ted rolling his eyes in exasperation and Connie enjoying
herself giving him anti-chill orders all over the saloon bar, I closed my ears
to Tinker's mumbled list of negatives, and thought: One or two negatives, fine.
A whole East Anglia of negatives is serious cause for concern.
Mostly for me.
There and then, my mind made itself up.
Until hearing Tinker, I'd assumed that sooner or later Ledger
would find the three blokes who did Crampie and Mr. Malleson. Now it was all
too clear that things were beyond reach. It was too big. Think of the resources
to clear out every special item from East Anglia. It took expertise, men, time,
knowledge, and money, money, and more money. Old Pinder and his syndicate were
not so daft after all, just wealthy and obsessed. I half listened to Tinker's
boozy drone. ". . . then Liz at Dragonsdale, who reckoned she'd seen an
early Venetian black-letter book eight weeks back, but ..."
Which left the question of what the hell I was worrying about.
Caterina's warning was crystal clear: Keep out of it, and Lovejoy will not be
troubled in the slightest. Honestly, I wasn't feeling guilty. No, really
honestly. It was nothing at all to do with me. Admitted, Mr. Malleson wouldn't
be dead if I'd dissuaded him enough. And Crampie wouldn't be dead if I'd maybe
stopped, insisted on giving him a lift. Or maybe I shouldn't have shouted all
over the pub car park that the Carpaccio was a fake. I can shed guilt like snow
off a duck. Anyway, I always find it belongs to somebody else. No, I was
absolved.
'Then I went to Jim Morris at frigging Goldhanger—"
"Oooh, your poor thing! It must have been freezing!"
From good old hot-blooded Connie. By now she'd got us all hunched over the pub
fire. My mind was busily doling out absolution, mostly to myself. "I was
freezing, too, in the library," she said.
That reminded me, and I opened the book she'd brought. It was the
wrong one.
"But darling, the library was freezing—" "I
distinctly said a history of Venice, you stupid—" "It's a book on
Venice, isn't it? It's not my fault." Of course it never is with women. I
tried to sulk as she drove all the way to the Colne estuary but got interested
in the look in spite of myself. The index listed Ammiana, the name old Pinder
had mentioned. It was an island, one of the many which make up the Most Serene
Republic of Venice. A thriving center of culture, of religious activity, eight gracious
antique-filled churches—until it had sunk beneath the waters, never to be seen
again. There were others. Reading in a car makes me unwell, but it wasn't just
that that made me feel prickly.
"It's perishing in here, love," I said. "Put the
heater on.
She did so with delight. First time we'd ever seen eye to eye.
8
"I'm so frightened, Lovejoy."
"Don't worry, love. Just do it."
"When do I put the money in?"
Connie and I were crammed in the phone box. One of her stockings
was tight over the mouthpiece.
himself. Connie leaned away as he shuffled back. Some days he's worse than
others.
"Eh? I told you anything Venetian, Tinker, you burke."
"Don't blame me, Lovejoy. Worn my bleeding feet orf, I
have." He slurped his pint dry and spoke with feeling. 'There's not a
single frigging Venetian antique—real, fake, nicked, bent, or just passing
through—in the whole frigging Eastern Hundreds."
He rose to shamble off for another pint. "Ted," I called
to the barman wearily, "keep one coming or we'll be here all day." I
beamed a rather worried look at Connie, because she'd have to pay and I owed
her a fortune already. By her reckoning, I possibly owed very, very much more.
Quickly sensing she was one up, she immediately asked Ted to stop the drafts,
which were positively whistling through the pub, and to please turn up the
heating while he was at it and put more logs on the fire.
I concentrated. "None? That's impossible. Tinker."
"I know, Lovejoy. It's bleeding true. I went down Brad's,
Ernie's, Jessica's on Mersea Island . . ."
With Ted rolling his eyes in exasperation and Connie enjoying
herself giving him anti-chill orders all over the saloon bar, I closed my ears
to Tinker's mumbled list of negatives, and thought: One or two negatives, fine.
A whole East Anglia of negatives is serious cause for concern.
Mostly for me.
There and then, my mind made itself up.
Until hearing Tinker, I'd assumed that sooner or later Ledger
would find the three blokes who did Crampie and Mr. Malleson. Now it was all
too clear that things were beyond reach. It was too big. Think of the resources
to clear out every special item from East Anglia. It took expertise, men, time,
knowledge, and money, money, and more money. Old Pinder and his syndicate were
not so daft after all, just wealthy and obsessed. I half listened to Tinker's
boozy drone. ". . . then Liz at Dragonsdale, who reckoned she'd seen an
early Venetian black-letter book eight weeks back, but ..."
Which left the question of what the hell I was worrying about.
Caterina's warning was crystal clear: Keep out of it, and Lovejoy will not be
troubled in the slightest. Honestly, I wasn't feeling guilty. No, really
honestly. It was nothing at all to do with me. Admitted, Mr. Malleson wouldn't
be dead if I'd dissuaded him enough. And Crampie wouldn't be dead if I'd maybe
stopped, insisted on giving him a lift. Or maybe I shouldn't have shouted all
over the pub car park that the Carpaccio was a fake. I can shed guilt like snow
off a duck. Anyway, I always find it belongs to somebody else. No, I was
absolved.
'Then I went to Jim Morris at frigging Goldhanger—"
"Oooh, your poor thing! It must have been freezing!"
From good old hot-blooded Connie. By now she'd got us all hunched over the pub
fire. My mind was busily doling out absolution, mostly to myself. "I was
freezing, too, in the library," she said.
That reminded me, and I opened the book she'd brought. It was the
wrong one.
"But darling, the library was freezing—" "I
distinctly said a history of Venice, you stupid—" "It's a book on
Venice, isn't it? It's not my fault." Of course it never is with women. I
tried to sulk as she drove all the way to the Colne estuary but got interested
in the look in spite of myself. The index listed Ammiana, the name old Pinder
had mentioned. It was an island, one of the many which make up the Most Serene
Republic of Venice. A thriving center of culture, of religious activity, eight gracious
antique-filled churches—until it had sunk beneath the waters, never to be seen
again. There were others. Reading in a car makes me unwell, but it wasn't just
that that made me feel prickly.
"It's perishing in here, love," I said. "Put the
heater on.
She did so with delight. First time we'd ever seen eye to eye.
8
"I'm so frightened, Lovejoy."
"Don't worry, love. Just do it."
"When do I put the money in?"
Connie and I were crammed in the phone box. One of her stockings
was tight over the mouthpiece.
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