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

asked, as he backed his van. ‘How come you know this place?’ For all I knew he might come to church here. A chapel adjoined the main building.
    ‘Prior Metivier was in our punter syndicate.’ He braked, gravel spouting. ‘Good brain, but unlucky.’
    I watched the vehicle recede.
    Albansham Priory was of astonishing red brick, with angular tall chimneys, leaded windows, ramparts and leaded roofs, a flagpole on a turret, an archway for coaches, climbing plants doing their picturesque stuff. It was a post-cardy Queen Anne, lovely and venerable. I liked it. Would it like me?
    ‘Hello again, Lovejoy.’
    Marie Metivier waited at the foot of broad stone steps. She wore a stunning electric blue day dress. Her hair looked different. I couldn’t remember if she’d worn a hat. More importantly, hate was back in style. Her eyes flashed with contempt, if eyes can do such a thing.
    ‘Hello, er, missus.’ I didn’t buss her, in case she had me shot.
    ‘Why did you come with that man?’ She spoke with disgust.
    ‘Eh? Hunter? He gave me a lift.’ Did she expect me to jog the eighteen miles?
    ‘Why didn’t you come in your own car?’
    Some women make you thoroughly fed up. ‘Look, lady. My motor is the corroding sublimate of rust. I’ve been trying to sell it for years.’ I was suddenly hopeful. ‘You want it? One owner, good condition.’
    She faced me, apoplectic with fury. ‘Where’s the famous antique dealer, then, who can detect antiques just by sense? Why are you broke, Lovejoy? You’re the only dealer who can never ever be!’
    ‘Women,’ I said, adding nastily, ‘women like you. Who have ideas of betterment. Who have worthy causes and know what’s best.’ I gave up. I could walk into Aldeburgh. Olivia the coastguard’s wife might be free, run me away from these lunatics back to civilization where I was mistrusted but safe.
    ‘You identified the Montagnana. Where’s that money gone?’
    ‘Eh?’
    Italian names need spelling out before they come to their senses. Painstakingly I said the name to myself. Then I remembered.
    I’d been in a shop near Telford and got talking to a tourist from Omaha. She was a pretty woman, who wanted help at an auction. I went with her, from lust. The globular porcelain she’d hoped was genuine Wedgwood ‘Fairyland’ lustre was an obvious fake. I told her that its lid rim was too uneven. But there was this violin.
    It was in a shoddy frayed case, a throwout you can get for a few pence anywhere. But the violin was magic. I heard it playing to me in its case as I drifted round. I opened the case for a look, and instantly became a supplicant before majesty. The woman - was she called Barbara? - didn’t notice, admiring crummy forgeries and discarded jetsam. I was broke, as it happened. I told her to buy the violin whatever it cost. We had a brief breakdown in communication. She said she wasn’t at all musical. I said I’d kill her if she didn’t buy it. She tried to pass my venomous remark off as a joke, so I had to do some forceful persuasion that I won’t describe, if you don’t mind.
    The upshot was that Barbara from Omaha, wherever that is, bought it for a song. Some expert later identified it as a Domenicus Montagnana violin, 1727. It sold later for a sixth of a million, which was a percentage or two up on the nineteen quid Barbara bid for it. It made the headlines in Telford’s mighty press. Barbara gave gushing interviews on TV. By then I’d slipped from the firing line. Once she’d got the gelt Barbara gave me the sailor’s elbow.
    ‘The violin?’ I smiled, recalling the feeling. She had been so beautiful, almost a returning dream. It was purest sexuality, the music washing my soul in that musty dusty hole of an auction. ‘She was exquisite. I’d give almost anything to have her still.’
    ‘The woman?’ Marie Metivier asked.
    ‘No, silly cow. The violin.’
    ‘Why didn’t you keep it, Lovejoy?’
    ‘Lady,’ I said bitterly. ‘If I couldn’t