The Rich And The Profane by Jonathan Gash Read Free Book Online

Lovejoy!’ Fond tears were in Vesta’s eyes.
    ‘Mmmh,’ I went. No antiques here either, just dross that ought to be down on Roman Marsh. ‘About Rockingham.’ Her face changed. She concentrated on foes.
    ‘Mike’s got some tart sniffing around him, the conniving bitch.’
    ‘What’s she like?’
    ‘I haven’t seen her yet.’ Vesta’s hatred is impartial. ‘I’ll fix the slut. Huh! A name like Irma?’
    ‘Irma!’ I chuckled. ‘Honest. A name like that!’ I should talk.
    My response pleased her. ‘You want that Rockingham, Lovejoy? It’s named underneath, has the right handle. See?’ She held it up proudly. ‘Horse-tail and hoof?’
    I hadn’t missed the characteristic shape, for the handle’s top started as a horse’s tail and finished as a hoof. But one swallow doesn’t, does it?
    ‘Beautiful,’ I lied, mentally apologizing to genuine antique china the world over. ‘I wish I’d the money.’ If I had, I’d not spend it on a dud made last Saturday.
    She wagged her eyebrows fetchingly. ‘An arrangement, Lovejoy?’
    ‘Who’s been after Rockingham lately?’
    ‘Everybody on earth.’ She swore at a nail that split. To my consternation she simply ripped it off and searched for her handbag. False nails, I realized. Those and eyelash crimpers give me the willies. ‘Mostly that Mrs Crucifex.’ ‘That who?’ I said innocently.
    ‘Crucifex. Has three homes, a husband in each.’
    ‘She likes Rockingham?’ I already knew.
    ‘She eats it for breakfast.’ She seated herself and busily started gluing a fingernail into place. She paused to eye me. ‘Don’t do it, Lovejoy. She eats men for breakfast as well.’ ‘Three homes, eh?’ I grinned, to loosen up. ‘There’s money in antiques!’
    ‘In charities, you mean.’ She resumed painting the new nail red, her tongue out to concentrate. ‘She’s a milker.’ One who espouses charitable causes in order to nick the money.
    ‘Then she can’t be all bad,’ I said mildly, to goad.
    Vesta reacted with a snort. ‘She’s in with that Albansham crowd’s new charity. Had the frigging nerve to come asking would I help.’
    ‘To which you replied?’ I laughed my way to the door. Her remark stopped me. ‘Lovejoy. Why Rockingham of a sudden?’
    I hesitated, overacting. ‘There was a piece going at the auction, Gimbert’s. It got withdrawn.’
    ‘Irma the wormer got herself arrested,’ Vesta said with relish. ‘Some crank got her sprung. She hates her auntie. Nightmarish told me.’
    ‘Her auntie?’ I raised both hands to fend off more explanations, and shot out.
    My smile died in the street. Auntie, as in Mrs Crucifex? I wanted a word with Nightmarish, but not until I’d sussed out Irma and this Mrs Crucifex. I rang directory enquiries from the Bay and Say tavern. Yes, the operator told me, Mrs Crucifer was a subscriber, Saumarez House, Albansham village. I said ta.
    That worried me, the name. Wasn’t Saumarez some historical character? I’d not time to visit our town’s hopeless library.
    It stopped raining! I got Hunter from the tavern darts team to drive me to Albansham Priory. He’s a pest, talked about income tax all the way. A couple of miles from the coast I told him to hang on a sec.
    ‘The priory must be near.’ A signpost showed in the leafy hedgerow.
    ‘It’s OK, Lovejoy,’ Hunter said. ‘I know the way.’
    And he did. We headed for the sea, nearly were into Aldeburgh itself when he turned into a narrow drive. It’s all countryside there, and I don’t recommend it. Suffolk is as depressing as fields, rivers and undulating woods can make it. Shown on canvas by Constable, it’s safe and beautiful. In the raw, it’s lonesome and scary. East Anglia runs out of towns faster than anywhere I know.
    We trundled into a walled courtyard. I got out. Hunter said so long.
    ‘Got the darts championship later, Lovejoy,’ he said. ‘Big money.’
    Hunter the Punter, they call him. Thought intruded. ‘Here, Hunter,’ I