Free The Rich And The Profane by Jonathan Gash Page A

Albansham a modern place of pilgrimage like in olden days.’
    ‘Why not just put a rope round the hot pool, five quid a head?’
    Gesso guffawed at my ignorance.
    ‘You’re off your trolley, wack. A farmer tried to fill it in years back, chucked in a hundred tons of rubble. Know what? It just vanished, glug, glug. No, Lovejoy. Sit a tourist down in that, it’s goodnight Vienna.’
    ‘Wise, then,’ I said, uneasy, ‘your little brick bath. I can see that.’
    He came to the end of his pint. ‘What you want me for, Lovejoy?’
    ‘Eh? Oh, aye. Help me to burgle it, Gesso?’
    He stared. ‘To what?’
    ‘You heard. Tomorrow night? You know the monks’ routine.’
    ‘Here, hang on—’
    Maureen Jolly waved at me from the saloon bar. I went to her.
    ‘Did you meet him?’ Maureen breathed eagerly, bussing me and shoving her friend off a stool for me.
    ‘Who do you mean, Maureen?’ I pretended a roguish ignorance.
    ‘Jonno Rant, you fiend!’
    Phew. I’d forgotten the name I’d made up. ‘Yes. He’s resting at my cottage.’ Good lies are reckless.
    ‘He’s a lovely man,’ said Maureen’s friend wistfully. ‘I nearly auditioned for him once. Some younger bitch got the part.’
    A real Jonno Rant? I eyed Maureen’s friend. Until then I’d been admiring her on the sly - redhead, elfin and pretty in a green woollen dress. Now, I wasn’t sure I liked her one bit. I needed gelt to finance a burglary, not truth. Also, I wanted my lies to stay lies, not suddenly turn into realities. Life’s a mess.
    ‘Are you sure it was Jonno Rant?’ I said, sleet. Where the hell had I got the name from? Maybe some subconscious news bite lingered in my cortex.
    Maureen laughed, slapping me playfully. I wish she wouldn’t do that.
    ‘Lovejoy’s always joking, Patty. Take no notice. Jonno’s famous! He’s produced more shows than anybody on earth\ When can I meet him, Lovejoy?’
    ‘Tomorrow.’ I heaved a sigh. ‘I’ve been trying to borrow enough to take him out for a proper meal. You know these...’ Christ, what were Jonnos called? ‘These, er, show-business types. I don’t want him to think badly of East Anglia.’
    Maureen groaned. Patty groaned. We all groaned.
    ‘I’ve got it, Lovejoy! Everything is looks. It’s the world. Here!’ Patty brightened, me thinking thank God the penny’d dropped. ‘How about we lend you the money, Lovejoy? That way,’ the lovely goddess explained while I fell in love with her, from the bottom of my heart, ‘he’ll be really impressed.’
    ‘That’s it!’ I cried. ‘We’re noshing in the George, you stroll by—’
    ‘Right! Right!’ they both squealed, rummaging in handbags. Angel voices warbled fit to burst.
    On my way out I gave Gesso the nod, then phoned Florida to say I was delayed at an auction.
    She was outraged. ‘At this hour, Lovejoy?’
    ‘It’s a ring auction, love. I’ll see you about eleven o’clock. OK?’
    ‘I don’t know if I can be bothered to wait.’
    Then don’t, I thought but wheedled, ‘Please, dwoorlink.’ Then I gave Thaddeus Harrod a few quid to lend me his motor and drove to Saumarez House, the home of Mrs Crucifex.

9
    THE motor was basically defunct. It had suffered. Twice it conked out on the bypass. On the outskirts of Albansham I flagged down a passing motorist. He was heading to the snooker match. His brother ran the team.
    ‘You’re lucky, mate,’ he said, laughing. ‘Don’t stay out tonight.’
    ‘Why? Is it All Hallows?’ I can never keep track of these ancient folk festivals. Hereabouts it’s all ‘next Lady Day’ and ‘three nights before Michaelmas’, and ‘on Lammas Day’ and suchlike nonsense. I can’t see the point, when we’ve got calendars.
    ‘No. The hare coursing’s tomorrow.’ For a second he looked stricken. ‘Here. You’re not the Plod?’
    ‘Give over.’
    ‘Thank God.’ He really did seem relieved. ‘The prior would kill me.’
    ‘Prior George?’ I chuckled, putting it on.