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Summary
Summary
Lovejoy gets married! Languishing in the nick for an antique scam that went belly up, Lovejoy gets an offer he can't refuse from Ellen Jaynor, the brains behind The Anglers Manglers Speed-Datery. If he'll come along, chat up Laura Moon and agree to marriage, an early prison release will be arranged. But with Lovejoy nothing's ever that simple, and whoever said you can't scam a scammer didn't know what he was talking about. In the space of a week, Lovejoy's loony bride-to-be has involved him with delegates from 16 groups representing the world's Lost Tribes, who want him to substantiate the authenticity of their priceless antiques. Oh, and by the way, would Lovejoy also find Laura's ex-husband, who absconded after murdering a young girl? The following week finds Lovejoy even busier. Three of his chums are topped. His illegitimate son Mortimer pops up, then gets kidnapped, prompting Lovejoy to flee Somnell House, the repository of all those antiques, just before it burns to the ground. With so many pretty women to make smiles with (Lovejoy's term for a bit of sex), he barely has time to confront the only woman he's ever really trusted, more fool he, as she sails off with her inamorata from Blackpool's North Pier, accompanied by a boatload of the Lost Tribes' valuables. A picaresque tour de farce. If you crave linear plotting, Gash (The Ten Word Game, 2004, etc.) will send you screaming for Tylenol, but nobody dissembles more brilliantly. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Summary
Lovejoy is released from jail on condition he join the elegant Laura Moon's speed-dating agency. A divorced millionairess, she proposes a temporary marriage of convenience to help her hunt down her former husband.
Can Lovejoy do what is expected of him without getting killed?
Author Notes
Jonathan Gash, best known as the creator of the character Lovejoy, is the pseudonym of John Grant. Grant was born on September 30, 1933 in Bolton, Lancashire, England. He was educated at the University of London and the Royal College of Surgeons and Physics.
In the mid-1970s, Gash began writing to relieve some of the stress of his career as a physician. The first Lovejoy novel, The Judas Pair, won the Creasey Award for the Crime Writer's Association of Great Britain for best first crime novel. A number of other novels, Lovejoy's and otherwise, have followed.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (2)
Publisher's Weekly Review
In Gash's jaunty 24th Lovejoy mystery to feature the crooked East Anglian antiques expert with a weakness for women (after 2004's The Ten Word Game), Lovejoy accepts an offer of early release from prison on condition he work for a speed-dating service run by Laura Moon, a wealthy divorcee. Part of the deal, he soon learns, is to wed Laura in a ploy to bring her ex-husband, a confidence trickster, out of hiding. Lovejoy agrees, but before the ink is dry on the marriage register, a couple of his friends suffer fatal accidents. The rambling plot involves "white tribes," people who control fortunes in old jewels and curios that could potentially flood the antiques market. While Gash makes the British slang easy to follow for American readers and throws in plenty of authentic antiques lore, this dated tale with its often grating protagonist is unlikely to win the author many new fans. (Dec.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Gash's Lovejoy is a character straight out of an eighteenth-century picaresque novel he lives by his wits, cavorts through an exhausting series of sexual escapades, and is always falling into and out of trouble. Lovejoy is a British antiques dealer and divvy, someone with an almost eerie ability to sniff out the genuine from the fake. Antiques represent his one true love. In the latest (the twenty-fourth in the series), Lovejoy is in jail for his latest scrape with the law, but he gets an early release when a divorced millionairess pulls some strings. The millionairess has strings for Lovejoy, too. First, as payment for his release, Lovejoy is ordered to join the divorcee's speed-dating agency. Then the real scam hits: Lovejoy is coerced into marrying the woman in order to flush out her ex-husband. The action careens along amiably, but what holds it together is Lovejoy's great knowledge of antiques, which he happily dispenses to the reader. High mystery-comedy.--Fletcher, Connie Copyright 2009 Booklist
Excerpts
Excerpts
Chapter One wallet: one who finances an antiques scam (trade slang) Women and antiques are out there. They mean trouble. The reason is greed, everybody's greed. A lady visited me in prison. She eyed me. 'I'm Ellen Jaynor. You're not much to look at. 'You've got the wrong prisoner, missus.' Her eyes scored points. 'Do you have trouble with religion?' Huguenot? No meat on Fridays? Jewish? One lot had prayer shawls, but was it her team? 'Diwali? Ramadan?' Her lip curled in contempt. It cheered me up. Right bloke after all. I'm nothing to look at, average everything in a worn jacket. My hair's a thatch. I'd cut the fraying edges of my shirt cuffs, and my shoes are soled courtesy of Kellogg's cardboard. She was bonny. Thirtyish, dressed in blue with an antique necklace of tourmalines with one showy diamond. I guessed 2.4 carats. No wedding ring, just a hen's egg of a ruby (Sri Lankan, not that Madagascan muddy red people praise these days). Victorian jewellers were class. The screws and passing gaolbirds were lusting Force Five. I felt proud of my classy lass, but mistakes don't last. Who exactly was Ellen Jaynor, down among us lowlifes? 'I'm offering you a job and a release permit.' Two months early? Permit is a filthy word. It always sounds its opposite, like licence. 'Er, job?' I didn't want to do another robbery just yet. 'Speed-dating. Merely speaking to women.' 'I do it all the time.' 'The Anglers Manglers Speed-Datery pays a flat rate.' She gave me a smile like sleet. Women lack trust, I find. 'Balaclava Street drill hall in an hour.' The screw smiled and let her out. Back in my cell I collected my stuff. I'm not so daft I can't recognise a scam. It had to be antiques because I'm good at nothing else. One odd thing happened. I went to write my so-longs on the library blackboard, our tradition. There sat Rocco. He was reading. He saw me, and his giant builder's hands flicked the tome under his chair. Hiding something? Rocco can't read. He said good luck. I forgot the incident. You can't explain what happens in gaol. The nick faces the old Odeon in Crouch Street. I signed out on police bail -- a legal shackle to allow lawyers more golf time. The desk screw grinned. 'I've bet you'll be back in five weeks, son.' 'You've lost, George.' With a flourish I signed Lovejoy, I Hyde Park Gate, London , and departed. Wellingtons old address would irritate them. Our town's morning rush was in full flow, two buses, one car, a donkey cart and a crocodile of school children going to the Headgate Theatre. Hepsibah Smith their teacher ignored me. She carolled, 'Hurry, children! We mustn't be late!' Elizabeth is seven years old and lives in my lane. 'Miss Smith isn't speaking, Lovejoy,' she announced in a voice of thunder. 'You're in prison.' Hepsibah's lessons in tact had failed. I said, 'Shut your teeth, you little sod.' 'Lovejoy sleeps on his new auntie,' Elizabeth shrilled, 'with her legs--' 'Elizabeth! Hepsibah said, schoolmistress fashion: Eliz-a- beth . 'We are ambassadors for our village!' 'I seen him through his window ...' Elizabeth's bandsaw voice faded. Guiltily avoiding stares, I eeled through St Mary's churchyard. So much for the sacking I nail across my cottage window for privacy. Puzzled by Rocco's concealment, I called in the town's naff bookshop. I recognised the olive-green dust jacket -- ugh -- and gaped. Ancient Rock Paintings of North Africa. Jesus. Well, lots of pretence in the nick. The drill hall in Balaclava Street looked derelict. I knocked and pushed. 'Hello?' 'About time.' Ellen Jaynor was inside. She lit a fag, pluming cancer-producing pollutants. The floor was unswept, a flag drooping from a broken pole. 'Space those tables. Female clients sit against the walls.' 'Eh?' A dance seated on chairs? 'Watch it once round, then join in. Do the tea urn.' In the anteroom stood a begrimed tea thing, plastic cups and a box of biscuits. Not quite Disney World. I lit the gas burner. A fat girl came in and sat. Without a word she passed me a tea. Foul, but the best I'd had in weeks. 'I'm Trina. Are you the thief?' I went red. 'Er, yes.' 'I take the money. Jaynor dongs the bell, stingy old bitch.' Ellen Jaynor could hear but made no sign. I felt better for an ally. 'Twenty-four today.' Trina showed me her list. I gasped at the fee. For a chat? What happened to saying hello at the bus stop? 'Here. You're not that mare's friend, are you?' 'Never saw her before.' In case you've never heard of the Anglers Manglers Speed-Datery, I report that it is degradation. No courtship, no sweet glances in Sunday church. In short, we're barbaric. In speed-dating you're shoved at strangers. It's gab, grab, run to the fun, for now romance begins in a shoddy drill hall, at wonky card tables. Females -- any age, any shape -- face males -- any age, any shape. On the tocsin the sweating males move to the next bird. Some daters were nervy, others brash. A swig of tea, a dry biscuit and a three-minute natter didn't seem much for paying a fortune, but this was progress. Some women were young, others middle-aged, one frankly old, most in the grip of silent hysteria. Sessions ended on a double bell. Trina ushered them into the anteroom. Most women clustered, though one or two mingled. Embarrassment always makes my knees itch. I stood there filling cups. Eventually Trina beckoned me in. The bell sounded, and I sat. 'Wotcher,' I said, my chat-up line. 'Maureen,' the girl said irritably. 'Got a car?' 'Where do you want to go?' Her glance withered me. 'Er, no.' 'How much do you get?' And explained, 'Money. Your job.' 'Er, I'm between jobs.' Her eyebrows were question-marks one hair thick. I tried to smile but my smile often has bad days. 'Have you got property? Email?' And when I stuttered she added, 'Where d'you live?' 'In a rented cottage.' I'd stolen it by means of three fraudulent mortgages. She stared as if I'd mentioned leprosy, and called, 'I'm wasting my frigging time here.' The merciful bell rang. I moved on. The lady there was about forty, determined to put a bright face on this brawl. 'Hello.' She gripped her handbag. 'I'm Joanna.' We spoke in staccato phrases. Joanna worked in a shop, and had been divorced for seven years. She told me this in a don't-blame-me rush. I liked her. The bell came too soon. She looked back. I was a disappointment again. The kaleidoscope of faces came and went. Tracy was voluptuous but sneered. Seena had the shakes, craving doses only a pharmacist would know. The fifth made white-hot demands to prove I wasn't married. Can you disprove a negative? Her final words were, 'I need a fucking drink here.' Romance was in the air, but not in Balaclava Street drill hall. The sixth was an enemy. I missed the signs. 'Laura,' she said without preamble. 'I'm forty-three. Well?' Bossy and attractive. Smart suit, with a brooch that caught my eye. 'I only do antiques.' I shrugged. She cut to the chase. 'What antique is in this bag?' Laura must be the reason I'd been sprung. When all else fails I go for honesty. 'Show me and I'll have a go.' Her expression became a snarl. 'I've driven three hundred miles to waste my time. You'll suffer for this, Lovejoy.' My name? I hadn't told her my name. 'Nice brooch, Laura.' She was about to sweep out but paused. She peered at her lapel. A rose, four buds, diamonds in silver. 'It's off a street barrow.' 'Lucky you.' I delved into her shopping bag and found a teddy bear, long of snout and hump-naped. 'I thought you said antique.' 'It is a Steiff. It's genuine, unlike you.' 'Worth a lot,' I agreed. 'But 1903 isn't old.' Uncertainty crept in. 'Made a century ago, and not old?' 'Hasto be 150 years before I get the feel.' She went silent. I tried to help. 'Work it out. Its stud is plain, so it's early. Steiffs had an elephant emblem, then this domed blob. Those eyes are only shoe buttons.' I stood to leave. The bell double-donged. Clients drifted into the anteroom and the next lot filed in. Laura just looked. 'You said about my brooch?' 'Pavé- set . Gems laid like paving, each stone held in place by a dot of metal.' I found myself smiling. 'It's genuine 1795, Belgian or French.' Her eyes narrowed. 'Genuine, without a hallmark?' 'Continental antiques often lack marks. Junk shops mistake genuine jewellery for scrap 1960 lookalikes. So-long, missus.' 'Wait!' Ellen Jaynor grabbed my arm. 'Wait, or I'll not pay you!' I'd had enough. 'Being bonny doesn't mean you can cheat. Ta-ra.' Trina fisted the air in silent applause. The Joanna woman was in the foyer. Her expression brightened. 'Oh, Lovejoy. I'm so glad to catch you--' 'Sorry, love.' I pushed past. The door swung shut. Free! So I thought. FACES IN THE POOL. Copyright (c) 2008 by Jonathan Gash. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010. Excerpted from Faces in the Pool by Jonathan Gash All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
