Read Online The Sleepers of Erin by Jonathan Gash - Free Book Online Page B

pretends.’
    ‘And his lady-friend?’
    ‘Lily. She’s married, but loves Patrick. She deals in William IV furniture, when Patrick leaves her the odd farthing for herself.’
    That set me off chatting about them all. The elegant Helen, raising her eyebrows at the sight of me bringing in a class bird. Old bowler-hatted Alfred, the Regency prints and mezzotint man, battling with his moustache to get to his pint (‘His wife’s too fierce for him ever to go home,’ I explained). Brad the cheerful extrovert flintlock weapon specialist. Big Frank from Suffolk, currently halfway through his second pint, his fifth wife and the latest Sotheby’s silver catalogue. Poor Denny Havershall, desperately trying to sell a Cotman forgery to the morose Wilkie from Witham – hard going, because Wilkie had faked it in the first place. And Denny’s wife Beth had just produced her second little girl last week. Then there was the blonde Marion (mostly Roman pottery and early Islam ware) suggesting to the wealthier Jason from East Hill that they make a go of a partnership. Tarantulas make similar arrangements.
    ‘He’s a cold fish,’ Sinead observed.
    Which surprised me, so I had another look. Marion was working her eyes and cleavage overtime, ignoring the table’s beer puddles despite her splendid Aran woollie. Jason’s ex-army, and our one inherently wealthy dealer. He has a big place overlooking the Blackwater estuary. Telling Sinead that reminded me of the Heindricks, which reminded me of the spot that I was in, which reminded me I needed to know why Sinead had been seeking me.
    Tinker came with the drinks, all agog with urgency. The goon had brought Sinead a pint as well, but in a handle-mug, this being his idea of gentility.
    ‘Here, Lovejoy. The Old Bill’s out for you.’
    ‘George?’ He’s our village bobby. Whatever it was, I’d manage him.
    ‘No. Ledger. But no paper.’
    Thankfully, I nodded relief at this news that Ledger held no arrest warrant. ‘Ta, Tinker.’
    ‘And Harry’s bought that collection of pot tennis balls from Dragonsdale.’
    ‘Hell fire,’ I cursed. Harry has a stall in the town antiques arcade. I’d been hoping for them, a genuine mahogany-cased set of four.
    ‘Pottery? But that’s impossible.’
    ‘He means carpet bowls,’ I explained as Tinker dived back towards the bar. ‘Queen Victoria’s favourite indoor game. They fetch about fifteen quid apiece, but a cased set’s damned hard to find. A full set is three lots of four, with a little white “jack” the size of a golf ball. You play like lawn bowls.’
    ‘You’re upset,’ she interrupted in wonderment. ‘Over a pottery ball?’
    ‘They’re very rare now, especially in mint condition. These had a luscious blue circle-and-petal design.’
    ‘You should buy things when you see them,’ she was preaching, when my red face beaconed through to her and she dried. ‘Sorry, Lovejoy. Are you really broke?’
    ‘It’s being in your lousy hospital,’ I groused. ‘I missed all sorts of chances.’ Discomfiture gave me the courage to ask outright what was burning in my mind. ‘Look. Why did you come to the cottage?’
    ‘Not here,’ she said quickly.
    I drew breath to say why the hell not when our little party ended.
    Marcia ruined everything by coming to aghast us all. She rushed in excited and dishevelled, choking on the news that there had been a fire. Joxer’s work shed in the Priory ruins had burned down after a small explosion had occurred. People were saying it was one of Joxer’s gas bottles, that kind of thing. Some of the amateur dramatics men in the Priory parish hall, painting new sets in a desperate race to meet their dress-rehearsal deadline, heard the sound and rushed out to investigate. They made heroic attempts to beat the flames down, but without much hope. Then the fire brigade had arrived and had a go. The Priory ruins were, well, ruined anyway and the new church hall was safe, so what? Marcia had looked