The Grace in Older Women by Jonathan Gash Read Free Book Online

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rafters. I didn't mind them claiming that civilization hung in the balance if
they'd got some precious antique. I've seen blokes weep at missing a cigarette
card or a Huguenot twine button for a set. I've done it myself, twice hourly if
it gets results. I remember making love to this woman who had a Regency
commode, with only an hour to go before a buyer came from Sotheby's. You should
have heard the promises I made to her. I moved me to tears. I wish I'd been on
tape, maybe learn a few things. You forget what you say in the heat of the
moment. . . Where was I? Fate of the world, these loony Battishalls.
    'We have a responsibility, Lovejoy,' Battishall began, glancing at
his recumbent lady. ‘We have invested heavily, in . . .'
    'Preservation,' she sighed.
    Preservation!' he agreed with pride. 'We have run short of
capital, Lovejoy,' he went on portentously. 'This is the most significant
project on earth. Once known, the world will be agog!'
    Oh, aye, I thought. The lady drifted out of her decline to join
the general hilarity, exclaiming feebly, 'The world will be a place of peace
and love. True civilization restored, the glory of yesteryear! '
    Straight out of Mrs. Gaskell, whose writing I like, but you can't
really say her stuff aloud and expect to be taken seriously. Except Roberta
Battishall was gorgeous. If she had access to some antique valuable enough to
gut her home and hearth for, then I could at least listen.
    'And now we need funds to continue our onward march!' Good old
Ashley, recovering rank. 'Our righteous duty, Lovejoy!'
    Righteous duty snuffs out more lives than somewhat, so I'm not
strong on those. But an antique is an antique is an antique -sometimes.
    'Funds from where?' As if I didn't know.
    'From a particular antique, Lovejoy. Our last one, which we need
to sell for the highest possible sum.'
    'You have it?' I stooped to grovel, eager as a hound. Yet I hadn't
felt a single chime since entering the place, so there wasn't one within a
crook's reach. 'Here?'
    'Not yet, Lovejoy. But we shall. It's a horse, Whistlejack.'
    Who now cared? Not me. His horse could have sired a million Derby
winners and I still wouldn't give it time of day. Horse racing's the dullest
sport known to man. I once was invited to Epsom for the Derby, when involved
for a short time with a wealthy lady who had a string of thoroughbreds. It was
yawnsome. I'd sooner watch a hen sit . . . Hang on, Whistlejack?
    'Stubbs painted a lifesizer called Whistlejack .'
    'Correct. It will be ours. You will sell it.'
    'How do you want it sold?' As if I didn't know.
    'What sort of help?' A.I.I.D.K.
    'Well, ah . . .' For the first time a little uncertainty crept in.
'Not what you might call direct help,
Lovejoy. Kind of. . .'
    'Bent help?' I said kindly. Criminals hate words like crime,
fraud, deception. They prefer slang, especially upright bastions of the law
like Ashley Battishall and their lovely if ageing ladies that are keen to
restore civilization to its former grandeur.
    He brightened. 'Exactly, Lovejoy! Capital description! But stay
mum. Right, dearest?'
    'Yes, Ashley.' She was almost inaudible.
    'Can't you give me a clue, just so's I could get things, er,
bending?'
    'Afraid not, old chap.' Old chap now I was on his side. 'You'll be
informed the instant it arrives.'
    Arrives? On its way, then? He wrung my hand to seal the bargain.
    'One thing. What precisely do I get out of this?'
    Roberta hid her face in her frail hands, sobbed at the outrageous
mention of such base stuff as monetary profit.
    'You, Lovejoy, stay out of gaol.' He stooped to apologize to
Roberta, the sordid world entering her drawing room.
    'Gaol? What have I done?'
    'Your central magistry file is a foot thick, Lovejoy.' He didn't
need to bawl this bit. 'I have compiled a summary on your criminal past. You
will not survive a week if I choose to act. One word, and the police will be
investigating you for the next seventy years.'
    Roberta was peeping from her phoney lace