Free Faces in the Pool by Jonathan Gash Page B

classified Miss Farnacott: bonny, good with infants and dated slang, but murderous. Apart from that, she could be forgotten.
    Couldn’t be more wrong again.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    divvy (n & v): one who detects antiques without evidence
    Starvation has one good feature – it’s cheaper. From town, my cottage is five miles as the crow flies. ‘Except,’ like in the Humphrey Bogart film, ‘they ain’t crows.’
    Nobody in my cottage when I reached Lovejoy Antiques, Inc. The For Sale sign was cancelled by a red Sold stripe. I said a nervous hello to the empty garden, and no silent son appeared from the mists. Safe, I slipped inside. The gibbous moon’s light was that slanting hopeless stuff, so I did a lot of blundering for a candle. The candle was put into my hand. Like a fool, I said, ‘Ta,’ then screeched in fright. A match struck, showing Mortimer. I blistered him while my heart resumed its normal service, what the hell, etc.
    ‘I came because of that lady, Lovejoy.’
    He gave me fish and chips with mushy peas, a loaf, and a flask of tea. I fell on them, my eyes on him in case he wisped into the ether. His stealth comes from living in a wattle-and-daub hut among reed warblers. For God’s sake, he owned the whole frigging manor.
    The kilojoules kicked in. ‘What lady?’
    ‘The headmistress, Miss Farnacott. She’s hired Terminal.’
    Gulp. I’m scared of so many. ‘ Terminal ? Jesus. What for?’
    ‘To track you. She is cousin to Judge Jeffries.’
    Double gulp. Judge Jeffries is famed. Innocent or guilty, nobody gets off when he’s on the bench. He once reported himself for a minor traffic violation and demanded the police take action. They lacked evidence, so he actually fined himself and docked his own driving licence. Miss Farnacott proved Charles Darwin was right. Genetics will out.
    ‘Maybe it’s time to emigrate.’
    ‘Terminal’s at the Queen’s Head. I’ll tell you when he leaves.’
    East Anglian countrymen know the lore of leafy lanes. Mortimer goes one better. He knows things without knowing them, if you follow. Once, I had to meet him down Maldon way, loveliest of harbours. Mortimer was lying on the greensward, eyes closed, as I arrived and explained I was on trial again. Meanwhile, a yacht out on the North Sea started off in a new direction, sails flapping, and I wondered vaguely why boats did that. Mortimer – eyes still closed – said, ‘The wind’s veering, Lovejoy,’ quite like we were in mid-chat. I said, ‘How did you know what I was going to ask?’ He said, ‘The waves sound different. And your thoughts show.’ Sure enough, the breeze changed. He once saved my life by this rum business. I think he’s creepy.
    ‘Do I deserve Terminal? Little me?’
    ‘She thinks – excuse me – you are rubbish. It’s her father.’
    Shouldn’t sons protect their dads, even if illegitimate? Terminal is a killer – he’s said to have executed a paedo in Soho.
    ‘Look, Mortimer. Things are out of hand. I worry about Eunice Whorwood, and suddenly Tasker is in the arena. I help Veronica at the Antiques Arcade, and some fat lawyer berk threatens me. I speak to old Smethie, and Terminal, who can break my back with an eyelash, haunts my hedge? I want out, Mortimer.’ I spelt it for him, O-U-T.
    ‘Miss Farnacott has forbidden you to visit Mr Smethirst. She hired Terminal to ensure your compliance.’ Admin-speak . Mortimer would be great on some council.
    ‘That’s OK. I won’t even try.’
    ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘but—’
    He maddens me. He folded the chip paper, wiping the table down with a serviette. I hoped for pudding. He just looked about for a waste bin. None. Mortimer was well brought up. Requiescat in pace , Arthur, you raised a tidy lad.
    ‘Why the fuss?’
    ‘Because Mr Smethirst has asked for you, Lovejoy. Side Ward 3A at the Beeches. He thinks he’ll die soon, though the doctor says he will recover. He keeps trying to smuggle messages to you. Two guards stop him,’