The Possessions of a Lady Read Online Free PDF

morning, the old report laconically states, that the perpetrator
'disappeared in the afternoon'. Imagine stockjobbers—the word came in about
1688—actually having the nerve to trade in a company that merely promised, for
heaven's sake, to teach gentlemen Latin, conic sections, and 'the art of
playing the theorbo'. But trade they did, folk fighting in the streets for a
chance to lose their gelt. Even the patented steam-operated gentleman's boot
remover seems somehow sane.
     
    'Lovejoy.' He was suddenly there, six minions in support. Not so
mini, these minions. Pale, I quickly went into a fawning stoop.
    This bloke—I mean esteemed gentleman—is a life-threatening
enterprise called Big John Sheehan. He's one of these quiet Ulstermen who put
the fear of God in you just saying hello. Our ancient saying, 'Ulster for
soldiers,' is true, true.
    Big John's always impeccably dressed, shoes glittering, gaberdine
overcoat, black bowler. He once made a henchman walk home, just for having
dirty shoes. From Shrewsbury, over a hundred miles.
    'How do, John. Congratulations.' I did my cower.
    To my astonishment, his eyes filled. He removed his bowler,
cleared his throat to disguise emotion. He glared, checking that nobody was
jeering. Luckily, we weren't.
    'Thank you, Lovejoy. It's a stout heart that remembers loyal
anniversaries.'
    Christ, I thought in panic, now what? I'd only meant his nephew getting
a job in antiques at last, God preserve innocent antiques from duckeggs. Loyal
anniversaries? I looked desperately at his blokes, all smiling granite, no
help.
    'It's only right, John.' It had better be.
    'Lovejoy.' The world stilled even stiller. 'You did well getting
Shaver in. You divvied some pots, did the man a favour so he would oblige?'
    'Pleased to help.' I sweated a terrified sweat. Big John's
approval tends not to last. 'Hope he does well.'
    Shaver is John's nephew, dense as a moat. Sheehan had promulgated
an edict that Shaver must become an antique dealer. Finally, I'd got him a
position as trainee in Croydon. The dealer had only agreed because I'd divvied
his silver collection. Ten cruets, four inkstands. Only two were genuine
Georgian. He hadn't changed his labels, of course, but knowing what's fake
helps.
    'He will.' The world nodded. 'Want anything?'
    I drew breath. The wise man asks little, accepts less. I could
hardly say I'd just been flung out of a fashion show so would he please get
even. But refusal offends, so accept, costlessly.
    'Would you ref, John?' Which would only take a single nod. No fee,
and he'd leave satisfied.
    'Right, Lovejoy. Show me the reffo.'
    Everywhere now, law has become irrelevant. In the dim past, laws
must have been useful and quite nice. Do this, do that. Fine, everybody living
by a code, transgressors getting tidily done for, all that. But happy days are
gone. Forget to pay a parking ticket, the law hounds you all the days of your
life. Steal gillions in some international scam, massacre a township, you get
instant immunity, and your biography's an alltime bestseller. Law is for the
mighty, not us.
    In the antiques trade, the ref system has evolved. Ref for
'referee' in the old sense, not the football man with a whistle. Suppose I
promise to deliver an antique by a certain date. We don't go to lawyers, draw
up some contract that would take aeons to enforce. We ignore law, lawyers,
written agreements. We go to a ref, somebody who has violence—and therefore
justice—at his fingertips. It's called 'doing a reffo'. One thing first,
though. You've got to have the thing there— Old Master painting, Hester Bateman
silver jug, whatever. The ref has to see it. His word is law. (No, delete that.
His word is better. It's fair.)
    'This, John, please.' I pointed.
    'This board?' He stared at the Berkley Horse.
    'Aureole's giving it me.' Sheehan, I remembered uneasily, is
moral. Better leave him in a state of innocence.
    'That so, darlin'?'
    'Yes, John.' Aureole smiled openly, plus a secretive