Free The Rich And The Profane by Jonathan Gash

hazard.
    There’s this theory about civilization, isn’t there, that it travels ever westwards. As one civilization fades another starts, but always west. Like, China, India, then Persia, Egypt, Greece, Italy, England and now America. I think it’s rubbish myself, because what about all the civilizations we miss out? Anyway, what is civilization?
    Many folk say it’s crime.
    Not long since, everybody in our village left cars unlocked, babies in gardens, doors unlatched, let children walk to school. Now, we think Carnage City. Everything has floodlights. Our very doors are wired to the Plod. Think of Victorian England, where every known vice abounded. If civilization does move west, and America does tote Lady Culture’s lamp, then the flame singes the populace. Maybe crime and culture are inseparables. Now? Now it’s Russia and China. Round and round it goes.
    By the time I’d recovered and brewed up, Florida was awake. I got her talking about Irma - whom she knew - and Mrs Crucifex, whom she disliked with a woman’s indelible passion. I asked why. Florida said, very disapproving, that Mrs Crucifex had too many husbands, in too many places. I did my ???, and got it on the nail.
    Mrs Crucifex, from the Channel Isles. I said how I’d met her, and where.
    ‘That place?’ Florida almost spilt her tea in fury. She made a wondrous sight, sitting up in the candleglow, her breasts curved and her shoulders with that lovely sheen. ‘Albansham Priory is on its last legs. That phoney man and his sow of a sister.’
    ‘Oh,’ I remarked innocently. ‘I thought Prior Metivier was holy—’
    ‘He’s gutted it! My husband was educated there. We remember when it was a real priory, not just a few geriatrics putting on fetes and catchpenny stalls.’
    ‘Your husband?’ I didn’t like that.
    ‘Didn’t I tell you? He’s home.’ And this paragon of virtue added with sweet smiling innocence, ‘I’m glad. Things are back to normal.’
    ‘Er, look, love.’ I started to get up. ‘I’d better—’
    She held me. Her tea spilt anyway. ‘Not that normal, Lovejoy.’
    Women have ways of delaying you when you ought to be gone. Finally we dressed. She prattled about the Metiv-iers. In my wisdom I didn’t listen much. Once a loon, always a duckegg.
    Gesso was in the taproom of the Welcome Sailor. I’d tried eleven pubs. I needed Tinker. He’d have simply known where Gesso was, saved me hours.
    ‘Drink?’ I tried to get tick from Maisie, but she wouldn’t and I had to fork out my last groat. ‘Rum old place, that priory, eh, Gesso? What were you doing there, anyway? Bit religious for you, I’d have thought.’
    I’ve known Gesso a long time, since he used to prepare gesso walls for me to paint murals on.
    He’s got a face like one of those mournful comics who can make you laugh just standing there. In fact he used to be a pub comedian. Once, he tried to set up restoring antiques, but he was useless. He helped me at the occasional house robbery, until I realized I wasn’t really much good at it. His ex-wife Desdemona’s a friendly lass, very gregarious.
    ‘Mmmh.’ He took the ale with a nod. ‘I was at their open day, got talking to Prior George. He asked me about antiques. I told him about you. He’s got some old painting he wanted you to shufti.’
    So why didn’t Prior George just call? And a painting? Not that priceless Chinese bronze handle?
    ‘They’re going on retreat soon, Lovejoy. Here.’ He nudged me suggestively. ‘His sister’s a cracker, eh? And that Mrs Crucifex.’
    ‘She ran me to the village. Not a word.’
    ‘She’s his fund-raiser. Hates Miss Marie. Women.’
    ‘Aye.’ I thought of Gesso’s skills. ‘What exactly are you doing?’
    ‘Me? Bricking that mud bath they have. It’s taken me three days. None of them monks can lift a bloody shovel. Worse than useless.’
    ‘A bath?’ I was mystified.
    ‘Like for the Roman springs in Bath, but smaller. Visitors’ll soak. He’ll make