During the service Rink's eyes only met mine once. It was during the Dies Irae. That instant any doubts left me. He wouldn't give up, not him. The swine was as cold as any reptile. It was as if I'd gazed into the eyes of the stone crusader on his plinth in our nave. Stone, solid stone. I was so calm I lost concentration for a moment and felt our blacksmith tenor Jim Large's surprised glance along the row. There and then I made my first and last original De Profundis. Rink's head was reverently bowed as I prayed, aiming at the middle of his balding spot. That tonsure would have to go. And the scalp as well. I know that a funeral isn't exactly the place to pray for a successful execution, but matters were out of my hands now.

  I prayed: Dear Lord, Sorry about this, but Somebody's got to finish Darlin' Edward. And if Somebody doesn't get a move on pretty sharpish, I suppose it'll be up to me. Don't say I didn't warn Somebody in good time. Okay?

  The whole lot of us sang a beautiful Amen.

  Reverend Woking shook me by suddenly announcing that I would stand and utter a short homily on Dandy Jack. He's a forgetful old sod. He should have said. I could have worked out what to say.

  I rose and gazed about. Silence hung. Everybody but Helen was looking.

  Dandy Jack's known as Dandy because he's so tatty. He was always cheerful. I remember once he passed over a job lot of two exquisite model railway pieces at an auction. One was a brass miniature of the famous Columbine made about 1850 (the one drive-wheel looks a bit big, but don't be discouraged because it always tends to on models). The second was a lovely model of Queen Adelaide's bed coach, No. 2. I've only ever seen their kind once before so they're hardly penny a dozen. When I'd groaned and cursed Dandy for missing a real find, he looked rueful for a second and said, peeved, 'I thought they were just bloody toys. What the hell did grown engineers want to make little things like that for?' Then he'd laughed and laughed at his own idiocy, so much that I'd found myself grinning too. Finally, I gave up being mad and laughed as well. We were in Woody's over egg and chips at the time. Lisa thought us barmy and Woody shouted from the back what the hell was going on in there and if people couldn't behave in a restaurant they'd have to piss off. That only made us worse. The place finished in uproar. Finally we'd gasped our way over to the Marquis of Granby and got paralytic drunk. It's a right game, this.

  I looked about. Big Frank was reading his catalogue. Rink was piously bowed. I'm normally quite a good speaker, even with no notice, but it was a bit hard this time. I think I had a cold coming. I tried to start a couple of times but it didn't work. Dandy was almost in arm's reach. The coffin was covered beneath its heaps of flowers by a delicious purple embroidered pall, the precious and delicate Opus Anglicanum gold under-couching glittering against the rich colour. It's murder trying to copy. You just try. I recognized it as the one I'd tried to buy off Helen a year before. She'd sent me off with a flea in my ear: 'It's for millionaires and the crowned heads of Europe only, Lovejoy.' Dandy was neither.

  I found myself just looking at the floor in silence. Some woman coughed to fill in, helping out.

  'Dandy,' I managed at last. 'Whatever you find there, be a pal and save some for the rest of us.' I paused, thinking of me and Dandy getting ourselves chucked out of Woody's for laughing. It took another minute to get going. Bloody churches are full of draughts. 'It's not much help now, Dandy,' I said, 'but I'll do for the bastard that killed you whoever he was, so help me.' There was a lot of sudden shuffling. I heard Reverend Woking rise suddenly and then sit, aghast. 'Goodnight, Dandy,' I said. We all fidgeted a bit, coughed ourselves back into action.

  That was it. It doesn't seem very much for a whole person.

  I'd tell you the rest of the service but there's not much point. Afterwards we all went round saying we were sorry. Daft, really. It does no good. It's just what people do, I suppose.

  Outside the Reverend Woking was worried sick. He had the harrowed look of a vicar burdened by a debt in search of a debtor.

  'Er, Lovejoy - ' he said.

  'Don't worry. I'll pay for the funeral and the service,' I said.

  'Oh, fine, fine!' He went back to beaming goodbyes. Isn't religion a wonderful thing?

  The rest were already stampeding back to town. Nichole tried to speak to me but her eyes filled up and she turned aside, poor kid. Rink gave me a blank specky stare as they drove past. Yes, I thought, I mean you, you bastard.

  Janie stayed with me while they buried Dandy Jack. I told the vicar to get a posh stone for the grave. I'd pay, I said again. Not that it mattered. I'd no money for that either.

  'Lovejoy,' Reverend Woking intoned in farewell. 'Remember that God works in mysterious ways.'

  I nodded. I accept all that. It's just that I wish the Almighty had a better record in social reform.

  I walked home.

  Janie told me there was a man watching the cottage. I'd seen him on the wooden seat outside the chapel when I went to the village shop.

  'He comes sometimes and sits on the ruined gate by the copse,' she reported.

  'Any special time?'

  'Morning and evening.'

  I went up the lane and accosted him late on the third day. He was rather apologetic about it all, a pleasant bloke, about twenty-five.

  'I hope you don't mind,' he said, embarrassed.

  'Are you from Janie's husband?' I tried to snarl like I do at Algernon but couldn't.

  'No. I've tried to keep - ' he thought a moment, then brought out with pride - 'a low profile.' He smiled anxiously.

  'Are you supposed to be a… private eye?' We were both using words nicked from those corny detective series on telly.

  'I am one,' he said defiantly, actually believing it.

  I looked at him with interest. He was the first I'd ever seen.

  'We never get them hereabouts.' We were as embarrassed as each other. 'Who employs you?'

  'I can't tell.' He was going to die at the stake for his profession. What a pathetic mess.

  'Rink?' I said, and he quickly looked away. 'Thank you. That's what I want to know.

  Don't catch cold.'

  So it was Rink. That gave me time. I must have read both diaries a hundred times that week but I'd learned nothing. Rink must be in the same boat as I was. Reading them over and over would have been as dull as ditchwater if it hadn't been for Dandy Jack and that other business in my garden.

  'He's just an ordinary bloke,' I reported to Janie. 'I thought they were all hard as nails, as in Chandler.'

  'How horrid. What will he do?'

  'Oh, wait till I set off for the Isle of Man and phone Rink.' I shrugged. 'Then they'll follow me, I suppose.'

  'Are you going after all?' she asked.

  I gave her my very best and purest stare.

  'Of course I'm not,' I said. 'I only meant if.'

  CHAPTER XIII

  Contents - Prev/Next

  THE THIRD DAY I burned the flight. I know how the Vikings felt. An end, a beginning. I used paraffin to get it going and stood back. My cherry tree got a branch singed, but then living's just one risk after another, isn't it? A neighbour came running down the lane to see if the sky was falling. He breeds those long flat dogs which bark on middle F. I reassured him. He left after giving my wrapped hands a prolonged stare.

  I waited for Janie. She arrived about teatime.

  'Can I… have some money, Janie?' I watched her turn from hanging her coat up. I've only three pegs behind the hall door. I'd sold the mahogany stand that morning through Tinker Dill. That's Janie's best character point - never asks where things have suddenly gone. She may not care for my behaviour very much, but she accepts that it goes on. I think she tolerates me like a sort of personal bad weather, changeable and just having to be endured.

  'Yes, love.'

  I’ll pay it back. Soon.'

  'How much?' She fumbled in her handbag. 'Will a cheque do?'

  'Yes, please. Just enough for a couple of weeks.' I had to say sorry, after refusing all this time, but she said men were stupid sometimes and what were bits of paper. I'd have agreed if she meant compared with antiques.

  'Keep it,' she said.

  'No, no,' I said. 'A thousand times, no.' You have to be patient. She called me silly and got all exasperated. I think women have very simple minds.

  I looked at the cheque. Funny that a small strip of marked paper can mean so many antiques. When you think.

  'It's beautiful.' That must have been me speaking. I took it reverently off the table.

  'What are you laughing for?'

  'Oh, shut up, Lovejoy.' She turned away. It didn't sound like laughing.

  'I love you,' I said to her.

  She laughed and faced me, wobbling. Her cheeks were a bit wet.

  'Lovejoy, you're preposterous!'

  'Eh?'

  'You get everything wrong,' she said, subsiding somewhat and smiling out of character.

  'It's the other way round. 7 love you.'

  'That's what I said. 'I was puzzled. Just when things seemed on the mend between us.

  Women surprise me sometimes.

  'Come here to me,' she said, smiling properly now.

  'Just a minute.' I found a pen and paper to make a list, but Janie took the paper away.

  My hands were too clumsy to argue.

  'Shut up, Lovejoy,' she said, 'for heaven's sake.' So I did.

  An hour later I woke from the post-loving doze. My mind instantly thought of what I should do.

  Friend Rink had money. He could afford a watcher. All he had to do was wait. And if I ever made a dash for the Isle of Man he could either fly ahead or send his watcher to keep track. But nobody can move without money, and my income from Squaddie barely kept me alive. Janie's money was only for starters. I'd need more. I didn't know how long the search would take. Suddenly Janie was watching me, worried. She cheered up when I said I needed her help.

  'With some antiques?'

  'Yes. Cleaning and improving them.'

  'For selling?'

  'You're learning.'

  A mischievous smile lit her face.

  'Lovejoy. You… really need my help? Not Algernon's?'

  'Especially not Algernon's.'

  'Nor Margaret's?'

  'Good heavens, no.' I wanted no dealers.

  'But I know nothing about antiques.'

  Careless old Lovejoy almost said that was the point, but I covered up quickly by telling her I trusted her.

  'More than your friends?' she pressed. 'More even than Helen?' Typical.

  'Much more,' I said. Honesty was everywhere. I felt quite moved myself.

  'Then I will. On one condition.'

  'Eh?'

  'That you pay me, Lovejoy.'

  'Pay?' I yelped, starting upright in the bed. 'What the hell with?'

  'Give me one day - of your time.' She was adamant. I'd have to go carefully. What a dirty trick.

  'One day?' I countered uneasily. 'You can have tomorrow. That do?'

  She shook her head prettily. She's always especially attractive when she's up to no good. Sometimes I think women play on our feelings.

  'No. When I say. For me to decide what we do for a change.'

  'But what if -?'

  'No deal if you're going to make excuses, Lovejoy. Get somebody else.' I thought hard and with cunning but there seemed no way out.

  'Well, it's a bit unfair,' I said reluctantly. 'Will you give me some notice?'

  She hugged me, delighted.

  'Possibly, Lovejoy,' she said. 'And possibly not.' I tried wheedling but got no further.

  She told me, smiling sweetly, 'All we have is time.' She fluttered her eyelashes exaggeratedly. I thought of the forthcoming death of Edward Rink, Esq., and smiled, in control.

  Now here comes the bit I said you wouldn't like. Same as your grandma's beef tea it won't be pleasant but it will do you good. If you're poor it will save you a few quid. If you're one of the struggling rich it may save you millions.

  All I've said so far about antiques is right for antiques. But think a second. What exactly is 'an antique'? Look about at the articles round you. We can agree on many items, for a start. Your teacup made last week in good old Stoke-on-Trent isn't antique, for example. And that ball-point pen made last year isn't either. Right. But those three decorative Coronation mugs on your mantelpiece, how about them? Well, Liz II hardly qualifies. And that George VI cup? Not really. That George V mug, then? Sorry, no.

  Notice how difficult it's getting. None of these is 'an antique', not truly. Some people define 'antique' as being one hundred years from today. Others claim twenty-five years is plenty. And there's some logic in that, I suppose. After all, jubilees begin at twenty-five years, and a century's the magic hundred, isn't it? But the actual honest truth's sadly different. Anything from now to twenty-five years ago is modern. Going back from then to a century ago's bygone. Then there's a bit of a twilight zone. Then come antiques.

  Antiques begin, fans, in the shoulder of that lovely blissful Year of Grace 1836. No matter what dealer groups do with fanciful definitions, keep that magic date in mind.

  But please don't think I'm advising you to sprint out and hurl your Coronation souvenirs into the nearest jumble sale. That would be foolish, because three other factors besides age come into it. They're rarity, nature, and condition.

  And here it comes, pals, the end of our beautiful friendship. What I've just told you is okay for antiques as such. It's known by any dealer worth a light, and by most collectors with any sense.

  But nobody knows it like forgers do.

  You reach antiques by standing on piles of money. So my mind went: One, I have no antiques of my own.

  Two, I need money.

  Three, I therefore need to sell antiques, but I've got none.

  Four, I therefore need to sell some things that resemble antiques but which aren't the real thing. Hey ho.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Contents - Prev/Next

  BEFORE I GO ON, don't knock forgery. It's a respectable trade and has done a lot of good for mankind. Anyway, what's wrong with a good honest forgery? People only hate the idea because it means they can't afford to be lazy when buying.

  Michelangelo started out as the most expert forger of the Renaissance, copying an ancient sketch so well even his teacher Ghirlandaio was misled, mainly because Michelangelo had cleverly aged it. And even then he didn't own up, only being caught out by being overheard bragging about it in the boozer. And he went from strength to strength. It's a sobering thought that he would never have got himself launched, had it not been for his famous Sleeping Cupid forgery - he buried the statue where it would be found, and saw it actually sold to the famous collector Cardinal Riario. He'd the sense to include a 'straightener' (a give-away) so he could claim his just deserts later on.

  So, folks, an expert may do the actual forging, but it's us that make it something it never was in the first place.

  Ever since I can remember I've been making. As a kid I'd only to hear how William Blake revived and modified Castiglione's monotype engraving for me to go thieving copper sheet and working dementedly till all hours to see how it could have been done.

  It might sound odd behaviour, but it's taught me more about antiques than any other experience - and I include reading. I've tried everything: casting bronzes, silver-smithing, hammering coins, early 'chemical' photogravure, wood-block printing, making flintlocks, copying early German clocks, making parchment like St Cuthbert's monks in his Lindisfarne outfit, ironwork, Chinese glazes, making chain armour, anything.

  I often think of Faberge, that great (permit me to repeat that, folks: great) designer. He didn't actually make his brilliant masterpieces: that beavering was all done by subterranean troglodytic minions in his workshop such as Durofeev, the self-taught mechanic of St Petersburg who made the fabulous gold peacock which still trots out of Faberge's exquisite rock crystal Easter egg he gave to the Czar. When the new bureaucracy poured into his Moscow business at the Revolution's takeover, Faberge simply begged leave to be allowed to don his coat and hat and politely faded out of this modern era. The coming of the Admin. Man was just too much. Understandable, perhaps. My reaction's different. I fight. The opponent is barbarism.

  Being an antiques man and not having much else to fight with, I fight with antiques.

  And now I had a fight on my hands.

  I explained to Janie I had work to do.

  'More of that mysterious business in the cottage you won't let me see?' she complained.

  'That's it.'

  'If I find it turns out to be a secret cupboard containing a dumb blonde, Lovejoy -'

  'Very funny,' I got back, not wanting her to think of hiding places. 'Your husband's back today anyhow. Time for your homework.'

  'There's an alternative course of action.' Janie never smiles in this sort of conversation.

  'Tell any dealers you see I'm still contagious and they're not to call.' I pushed her out. I could tell that pleased her. She didn't even say 'Including Margaret?' which I expected.

  'Phone me,' she said.

  'Yes,' I promised. She'd written the best times down in case some stray serf picked up the blower and summoned her better half to take me to task. I stood at the door watching her drive off in the Lagonda. Like a mobile Stately Home.

  My workshop's only a shed. As much as possible I like the scene to be set correctly. No electricity. No gas. No lasers or power drills, just candles and an oil lamp. I have one wooden bench, a marble slab for special work and an old dental drill, foot-pedalled to a horizontal spindle for grinding and polishing. At the back of the garage there's a small brick kiln I've built and some leather foot-bellows I made. That's really it.

  The law on forgery's a bit funny, as on everything else. Anyone's allowed to make likenesses without infringing copyright law. But if you pass one off as somebody else's work for gain, the magistrates get cross and you're for it. So, sign any fake you've made with your own name, however skilfully hidden, and you're in the clear. I decided that Beck was the mark. For him I decided to make a special effort. I would skate very close to the edge. Beck unsuspectingly would provide the money. I would knowingly provide the forgeries, and I'd stay legal.