by Chris Power

There were two messages on my answer-phone when I got back from Cambridge, both of them from Eric. "Sorry about this, but I've got a chance at a couple of weeks in Wales, so I'm off to catch some fish." There was an element of bravado in the smug voice that wouldn't have been there if the little toe-rag had been face to face with me. "See you later. I'll bring you back something, I expect."

"I hope," I said to the machine, "you get your hooks embedded in your arse," and went to put the kettle on. There were a few clicks and the tape carried on. Eric again, cheerful and confident as ever. "'Lo, Lovejoy. It's me again. Forgot to say, I promised Fox he can kip on your couch for a while. He's an old mate and he's okay, honest. See you in a couple of weeks. 'Bye."

"What?" I screeched. "Eric, you--" For once words failed me. There was I, up to my ears in work, some of it decidedly--well--delicate, and that pillock was landing me with an uninvited guest. I played the tape back through again. Yes, in his own sweet way, Eric had lumbered me and there was nothing I could do about it until this Fox turned up on my doorstep. He would then get a king-sized flea in his ear and be sent back to Eric. Fox! I ask you! If he's one of Eric's friends, he probably smells like one and is just about as housetrained: a spotty would-be biker with delusions of style. Okay, if he was so anxious for a place to stay, he could shack up with Eric in Darkest Wales.

I glanced at my watch. It was nearly five o'clock on a filthy November day, and where the hell was the attraction of fishing at this time of year? I've often wondered if Eric had a few slates loose; now I was convinced.

However, not even Eric could completely sour my mood. The trip to Cambridge had been profitable. I'd handed over Ann Darcy, collected the first part-payment, bought some more of Hepple's patent jungle-juice so I could carry on with Ann's other half, and treated myself to a bottle of Laphroaig as a pat on the back for the way she'd turned out.

Let me say right away I don't normally do that kind of work. A painting on a wooden panel needs a highly specialised kind of care and in the normal run of things I'd have contracted her out. But Rupert Baverstock was--well, let me put it this way. He was a collector. One of those compulsives who hoard their goodies close like secret vices, shut up in their own private galleries so they can be gloated over in total privacy. And he was one of those who weren't fussy how he came by his bits and pieces. This wasn't the first time he'd brought a painting to me for the clean-up treatment, to be done on the quiet and by my own fair hands. And no questions asked. He also paid very well. So who was I to argue, even on the odd occasion when I knew he'd bought a wrong 'un.

Ann Darcy was the real thing, though. Even before I picked her up I got that soundless bell-resonance that told me 'Yes!', I didn't have to concentrate at all. But it wasn't until I'd cleaned off the muck of centuries that I really saw her, and fell for her like the proverbial ton of bricks. Naturally, Baverstock hadn't told me who she was; I'd reached for Burkes' even before he was out of the gate, and eventually I tracked them down, her and hubby.

She was an Elizabethan, a young woman in a russet and gold gown sewn with braids and lots of bows and hung about with ropes of pearls and what looked like topaz. A supported white lace collar rose up from her creamy shoulders, framing her face and showing off the lovely column of her neck and the tilt of her chin. She was brown-haired under the lace cap and brown eyed, laugh-lines lovingly painted in, a dimple in one cheek and a smile on the generous mouth. The artist, and okay, it wasn't signed but the meticulous detail of the lace was a pretty strong clue, had captured more than a likeness. You could see her vivacity, the joy in her, and the twinkle of humour. She and hubby were larger then Hilliard's usual work, but I'm not proud. Ann was a sweetheart. She could hang on my wall anytime.

But by now she would be displayed for the private delight of a cultural miser, and no one else would see her again for a very long time. I didn't like it, of course, but I don't like being poor, either, and Ann and Adam were cash-in-hand.

Originally they'd been one panel. Someone, somewhere, had committed the sacrilege of cutting in two what was probably the commemoration of their betrothal, since their coats of arms had not been impaled, but were poised over their outer shoulders. The panel might even have been longer; a pair of lovers standing hands linked in token of their bond. Yes, I'm a romantic at heart, haven't you guessed? Adam Courtney and Ann Darcy. I couldn't wait to see what Adam looked like under his layers.

I would have to, though. No sense in starting until tomorrow. One good thing about Eric's fishing spree; I wouldn't have to worry about him paying too much attention to what I was up to. But to give him his due, he'd lost interest in Ann when he'd seen she had clothes on.

As for the Unknown, he wouldn't be hanging around long enough to put his foot over my threshold, let alone get a look at young Courtney.

###

By eleven o'clock I'd forgotten about my visitor. A cigar, a good malt whisky, Casablanca on the idiot-box with the sound turned up so that it was like sitting in the front row at the flea-pit, plus a healthy fire in the hearth and I was well away. The knock on the door brought me back to the real world with a heck of a jolt, and it took a few seconds to realise who it probably was. Right, boyo, you'll like it in Wales.

So, with Havana poised and smiling with all my teeth, I opened the door. "Fox," I said. "On your bike." Which was appropriate. The figure on my unwelcome mat was clothed from head to foot in dripping wet motorcycle gear, most of which was black leather and was topped off by one of those black full-face visored helmets that look like a left-over from the Star Wars epics. He took it off and ran a gauntleted hand through his matted hair.

"Lovejoy," he said. His voice was quiet, deepish and slightly husky. "Can I come in?"

In the light that spilled from the room I could see that he was pale, that almost transparent pallor that goes with naturally auburn hair; his was not just red, it was a copper mane that came past his collar in heavy waves. He was in his early twenties and looked like he'd escaped from a Hollywood Brat Pack or a Mapplethorpe portfolio; all eyes and cheekbones and thin high-bridged nose, and a chin with the kind of arrogant jut to it that begged to be introduced to a fist. He looked like fire and ice. He looked like trouble.

Now, I have an instinct about these things and furthermore I am allergic to trouble. Okay, it's not infallible, this instinct, not like my divvying, but I had the distinct feeling that I wanted this one on his way to Wales right now, if not yesterday. 'Can I come in?' Not bloody likely--

"Yes," I heard myself say and I was moving aside to let him walk past me. His eyes were very green, and as our gazes met, he smiled. I was imagining things. This kid was no more trouble than bloody Eric. A pest and a pain in the backside, but that's all.

"Thanks," he said. "Eric said he'd phone you."

"Yeah. He phoned. I will wring his grubby neck when I get hold of him, but that's not your fault. You can stay for a day or so, I suppose," shutting the door on the night, "but there are a few house rules." He was no taller that me, was as thin as a rake and for all his youth he had a way of moving and a poise that--no, I was imagining things again. He was uncomfortable, uncertain of me and of Eric's casual assumption of my hospitality. "I deal in antiques; valuable, fragile and irreplaceable antiques. The room behind that curtain is out of bounds. It is my workshop and you do not set foot in it. Got it?"

"Yes, Lovejoy," he said meekly.

"Have you any gear?"

"On the bike."

"Bring it in then, and stick the bike up beside the barn. It'll be safe enough there. You look like you could do with a hot drink. Coffee?"

"Thanks--black, no sugar."

"Go on, then. And wipe your feet!"

###

I'd put the kettle on to boil and dug out Eric's blankets from the chest, was slinging them over the arm of the sofa as he came back in, a pair of pannier-bags over his shoulder. "You can sleep on here," I said, "but you don't leave the blankets lying around during the day. They get folded up and put away in there. You can do the cooking and washing up for both of us while you're here. Look on it as rent." Yes, I know I have a spare bedroom, but Eric doesn't get it, so neither will Fox. Besides, it's a very useful store room and the bed's dismantled."

"Yes, Lovejoy." Too mealy-mouthed by half, this one. He took off his gloves and held out a hand. "House rules noted."

"Good," I said. I shook his hand and got a shock. Not one of your common or garden statics, it was more like my divvie-feeling tolling under my ribs. Automatically I looked down at our joined hands. His paw was narrow and long-fingered and chilled, all but smothered in my larger grip. On his middle finger was an antique gold ring. The armorial design on the bezel worn close to obliteration. So the Brat was wearing a fancy ring. Probably nicked it. Wonder where he got it from? "Get your wet things off, furniture isn't improved by being dripped on. Went something to eat? I can run to a cheese and pickle sandwich."

"No, thanks. Just the coffee'll be fine."

When I got back with it he was crouched by the fire, hands held out to the blaze. The ring drew my eyes; it looked too heavy for the fine bones. He, on the other hand, looked frozen. He'd taken the jacket off and all he'd had underneath it was a black t-shirt. The contrast made his skin as pale as veined marble. I held out the steaming mug.

"Here," I said, "get that inside you. Want some whisky in it for the cold?"

"No, thanks."

A Brat-Pack biker, teetotal? It didn't bear thinking of. "You do drink, don't you?" I demanded suspiciously. He smiled again, showing white teeth this time.

"Yes," he said.

###

I didn't start to think about getting up until gone ten. After all, why bother? It was a foul day out there, a good old-fashioned East Anglian Fog had descended and the moisture in the air would give a sponge pneumonia. To pay the weathermen their due, they'd got their forecasts right this time. If they continued to be right, we'd be stuck with variations on this for the rest of the week. When I finally crawled out from under the duvet I remembered my uninvited guest.

I dragged on my dressing-gown and staggered downstairs, yawning. All in all, considering the amount of malt I'd drunk, I felt pretty good. Enough to be lenient with Fox, anyhow. Up to a point.

The curtains were still drawn and he was an unmoving lump on the sofa. So much for house rules and breakfast.

"Yoiks," I said, pulling back the curtains and letting in what passed for daylight. "Tally-ho." Fox didn't move. So he got the same treatment as that other lazy sod when I let him kip on my furniture; I leaned over, took a good handful of blanket and heaved. "Rise and shine, Reynard," I warbled, "or I'll set the hounds on you. Come on, tally-ho, let's be having you." He lay like a disarranged statue, stark naked and not as skinny as I'd thought he'd be. He got his eyes open as if his lids weighed a ton and blinked at me. He was more than half asleep, and all that red hair was tangled around his face like unravelled silk. I made a mental note to keep him out of Lady Jane's sight, just in case she decided she was in the market for a toy-boy. "Remember the rules?" I drawled. "Breakfast. Mine's a large pot of tea, bacon, eggs and toast. You can have the same if you like. The kitchen's thataway."

Something blazed up in his eyes, something feral and savage that stopped the breath in my throat and sent me back a pace. But in the same instant it was gone, leaving me with only the searing memory and the contradictory conviction that my imagination was working overtime again.... The curl of his mouth became a smile.

"Yes, Lovejoy," he said and got to his feet, swaying slightly. He pushed both hands through his hair, shoving the weight of it back from his face. A thin gold hoop glinted in his left earlobe, and there was a pearl-white scar on his temple, a ragged line running from the bony edge of his eye socket to disappear into his hair. By the look of it, he'd come within a millimetre of losing that eye. Someone took a bottle to him? Sacrilege. One does not damage a work of art, after all. He stretched, completely unselfconscious; he had the muscle definition of an athlete, but without that burned-to-tendon-and-sinew look, something pagan, archaic, and at the same time so distant and self-contained it was irritating. Mate of Eric's, my foot. Fox was way out of his league; might as well compare a Toledo rapier with a falchion--that was it. Sword blades, that's what he reminded me of. "You know," I said, eyeing him slowly up and down, just to see if I could rattle him, "Michelangelo would have loved you."

"I'll take that as a compliment, Lovejoy," he said easily. "Though I don't think it's intended to be one. Where's the bathroom?" No, I hadn't rattled him. Where the hell had Eric found him? Or maybe that should be where did he find Eric and why?

'"Door at the top of the stairs, right in front of you." Something was going on here, and it wasn't too hard to guess what. There were one or two items around the cottage that were worth a very pretty penny, and that didn't include Baverstock's painted panel. If so much as a teaspoon went walkabout I would do more than wring Eric's neck, I would rip his head off and shove it up his arse.

Scooping up the panniers he turned on his heel and headed for the stairs door. Yes. Definitely I must steer Janie clear of him.

I turned my attention to the remains of the fire until I heard the hinge-squeal from the bathroom door, then I pounced on his jacket. It was of the up-market, up-price tag kind, sans motif, sans studs, sans fringes, in fact it was designer-wear rather than Chapter Colours; he'd left it on the floor by the couch--one thing at least he had in common with Eric. I went through the pockets, fast and thorough. Bike keys, a moderately clean handkerchief, a ditto comb, a Swiss Army knife with all the usual gadgetry including wickedly sharp blades, and in every pocket a haphazard assortment of coins and notes that totalled up to about fifty or sixty quid. No driving licence, no credit cards, no identification. I started on the leather trousers without much hope. There were pockets, but they wouldn't hold much. Those trousers fitted him far too well for pockets to be fully functional. Sure enough they yielded up a couple of fivers and a handful of tenners and that was all. All! The Brat had over a hundred pounds about his person, which seemed an unlikely amount for a homeless mate of Catchpole's.

Curiouser and curiouser. I would have to ferret through those panniers of his as soon as possible. Upstairs the ancient plumbing groaned and crashed and I dived back to the hearth. When he came back into the room I was industriously prodding around with the poker, humming quietly to myself.

Barefoot, he padded past me to the couch, dropped the panniers and started folding blankets. He was wearing faded blue jeans and the black t-shirt, his hair had been combed to a neatness that lasted until he ran a hand through it. I had the feeling that gesture was a habit of his.

"The chest?" he asked.

"Yup. There should be room for the panniers as well."

"It's an antique."

"Good boy. Go to the top of the class. It's a seaman's chest, circa I880. Some antiques are for everyday use, some you don't even breathe on. This room doubles up as my shop," I went on. "So bear that in mind while you're wandering about, Reynard. Breakages will be paid for. In hide, if necessary."

"House rules, Lovejoy?" he said with an amused drawl and a lift of an eyebrow that irritated the hell out of me. As if he could out-Alexander Alexander without even trying. Sooner or later I was going to get some answers out of him, but for now I'd give him some rope and see how long it took before he hanged himself.

"Management rules, Brat," I snapped.

He nodded acceptance, stored the things away and headed for the kitchen while I hared upstairs to have a quick wash and shave and put on some clothes.

###

By the time I came down bacon and eggs were frying, a pot of tea had been made and the table was set for one. "Not eating?" I asked, sitting down and pouring myself out a mug.

"I don't have breakfast," he said. "This'll do me." 'This' was a steaming mug that contained, by the smell of it, hot Bovril in solution.

"Well, at least you won't eat me out of house and home," I said, vaguely uneasy. Unobtrusively I peered at his arms, but there were no needle tracks on the thin blue-veined skin of his forearms. He seemed even paler in the light of day, but looked tired rather than strung out.

"Oh, I won't do that," he smiled, and placed a loaded plate in front of me. Bacon and eggs cooked just the way I like them, with a stack of toast on the side.

"Nice. Sit down, Reynard, and tell me all about yourself." I'm afraid curiosity got the better of me. "Looks like you were lucky," I went on. tapping my own left temple. "What happened? Come off your bike?"

"No," he smiled. "A bay mare called Medusa."

"No kidding. What happened?"

"Nothing much," he said with a shrug. "Everyday story of country folk; I was eight and knew I could ride anything. She was my father's favourite and had a bit of a temper. So of course I sneaked a ride on her. She objected and bolted with me, straight through the South Wood. She scraped me off with the low branches the first chance she had. I collected this and was unconscious for two days."

"Strewth. What happened to the horse?"

"Medusa? Nothing. Father took his belt to me as soon as I woke up." It was said with wry humour and I was laughing along with him, at the same time trying to place this South Wood. I know most of the farms and estates around here, but I couldn't pin it down. So I'd have to fish subtly.

"Local, are you?"

He shook his head, lounging easily into the nearest chair and sipping the beef stock "Dorset. A village about ten miles from Dorchester."

"Pretty countryside in Dorset," I observed. There was no trace of the yokel in his voice, if anything he was practically BBC.

"Yes. Lots of tourists think so. The Catchpoles stayed in the area for a couple of weeks about, uh, six, seven years ago. Me and Eric knocked about a bit and we sort of stayed in touch when they moved back here."

That would have been when they were in their early teens, if it happened at all. I gazed into those guileless eyes and wished, not for the first time, that my divvie talent worked for people the way it did for antiques. "So when you needed a place to doss you automatically thought of Eric, right?"

"Right," he nodded, and raked his hair back.

"Eric," I said, "is an apprentice antiques dealer, if he survives that long. What are you good for, Fox? Apart from falling off horses." No glitter of fire or ice, just an earnest slow blink.

"Not a lot. I know something about some weapons, but that's all. I'm an apprentice specialist, I suppose," he added with a lopsided smile that I liked.

"I see. Dad in the trade, is he?"

"No, but he had one or two things that fascinated me, so I read about them."

"What weapons exactly?" Militaria--guns--were one of my specialities. His eyes were on my face, catching my gaze and holding it. "Pass the salt," I said. "What are you going to do with yourself today? If you haven't got anything planned, you can do some shopping for me."

"Okay," he said. "I'm going into town anyhow, to have a look in the Job Centre."

"Good idea. The Devil and Idle Hands, you know."

"You sound like my father," he said with a snort.

The cheeky sod. It occurred to me that there was something I was going to ask him, or had asked him, but I couldn't pin it down. Which meant it couldn't have been that important.

The phone went just as I finished the last of my breakfast. Fox was in the living-room and took the call. "Lovejoy Antiques," he said, to the manner born. Then, "hold the line, please. Lovejoy, it's a Dandy Jack about a Regency fire screen."

"Shit!" But an evil thought came to me as I lunged for the phone. If I introduced Fox to Dandy, the Brat would either be set up for life or he'd be heading for Dorset so fast he'd burn his tyres to the canvas. "Dandy, you know I don't do embroideries--" But it was the frame, not the fabric, that needed restoring. By the time I'd sorted him out and struck a deal I didn't really need or want but couldn't resist, Fox had finished the washing up and was back in his bike leathers, the helmet tucked under one arm like Ann Boleyn's head and those bloody panniers slung over the other shoulder. Damn.

I followed him outside and leaned casually on the barn door, hands in my pockets. It was cold, dank, and visibility was down to about thirty yards. '"Not the best of weather for travelling," I said.

"It's not that bad," he said, lifting off the tarp and folding it up. I gave a low whistle. Not surprisingly, the bike was black, but with a lot of chrome and all of it gleaming from loving care and attention. Below the petrol tank was a chrome gubbinses sporting a panel with two ones and two zeros, in that order. To coin a phrase, she looked like she could go like a bat out of hell. I know Eric has been lusting after a Harley Davidson for a long time now, but I would have thought one glance at that beauty would have given him an instant orgasm.

"A big bugger," I commented. "What is it?"

"Yamaha Virago II00," he said briefly, fastening the panniers in place. "What do you want?" Hmm. Bike fanatics usually can't resist an opening to wax lyrical about their beloved pets. Mavis, of undimmed memory and who really was a biker, certainly couldn't.

"Hmm? Oh. yes. The shopping." I fished a pencil and an old envelope out of my pockets and scribbled down some of the necessities of life, gave him the list and a tenner from my wallet. "Know your way around?"

"More or less." He gave me that rather charming one-sided smile. "If I get lost I'll ask a policeman."

"If you can find one," I grunted.

His smile became a chuckle and he pulled on the helmet, undergoing an instant transformation into Darth Vader's other son. He shifted The Big Bugger off her stand and swung astride her, turned the key in the ignition and she fired up first time. I say 'fired up' advisedly. She sounded like NASA had supplied the engine. He raised his hand in farewell and they disappeared into the murk, her hissing roar barely muffled by the fog, her headlight a Cyclopean glow.

I strolled back into the cottage and investigated the sea-chest. He'd obviously emptied the bike panniers for my shopping; a couple of t-shirts, several pairs of jeans and socks, and a washing-kit were all I found on top of the blankets. Talk about travelling light.

Weather like this would keep the casual caller away and I had no appointments, apart from Dandy Jack this evening, so I could spend the day in the workshop making a start on young Courtney, among other things. I won't bore you with the details, enough to say it was going to be a longish, very delicate and painstaking task before he would be revealed in all his true glory.

Within an hour I was missing Eric. Or Fox. I had to make my own pots of tea.

###

Hardships aside and without any interruptions, I soon lost track of time. My stomach was supplied with frequent Digestives and Rich Teas, the light was on for the day as a matter of course, so there was nothing to remind me how the hours were ticking past. Until a sudden blast of rain against the windows made me jump. It was gone half past five, it was as black as Dick's hat-band outside, and a good imitation of a monsoon was falling out of the sky. At least the fog had gone. On the other hand, my guest had not yet come back. No matter how absorbed I was in I6th Century artwork, I couldn't have missed The Big Bugger's arrival. So was he in a ditch, in the local Police cells, or an intricate and bloody part of a piece of modern sculpture entitled A Fox And A Motorcycle? Wonder what his real name is? Or was.

I tucked young Courtney away and went into the kitchen for a hot drink and a sandwich or two. The temperature in the living-room was cold as charity, as I had also forgotten that fires need feeding. It took a while to coax it back into life, to get some warmth into the place. I'd give him another hour--no, I'll give him until tomorrow morning, then I'll--no. He's a big boy, old enough to look after himself, and he wasn't my responsibility. Besides which, he almost certainly had designs on my stock.

The door opened and two men came in. Tall, wide-shouldered men with dark coats and hats, and cold grim faces. Whoops.

"Mr Lovejoy?" said Number One. "We've come to collect a certain item."

"What item?" I demanded, cool and calm. Yes, I was! "On whose behalf?"

"A portrait of a young man, oils on an oak panel, possibly by Hilliard. Our client wishes to remain anonymous."

I frowned. "Sorry, chaps," I said. "You've come to the wrong place. If I had a Hilliard, I'd be laughing all the way to Sotheby's."

"We are instructed to say," said Number Two, as if I hadn't said a word, "that our client is aware that the portrait is one of a pair, and that the young woman is currently in the possession of Rupert Baverstock. Our client is also aware that you are an uninvolved third party to his dispute with Mr Baverstock. He will ensure that your status as such will be respected, as soon as you hand over the young man." Honest, that's exactly what they said. Like a pair of lawyers. Fox, when I get my hands on you....

"I'm sorry," I said again, with that sinking feeling that I soon would be, "but I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't got a Hilliard. The earliest painting I have at the moment is I7th Century Flemish and that's being restored for Wilkie-Scott in Ipswich."

"You purchased certain substances from John Hepple," said One.

"Yes, I'm cleaning up an early Victorian bow-fronted panelled--"

"Mr Lovejoy," cut in Two, "we're sure our client respects your integrity, but business is business. No doubt you are unaware that your client came by the portraits illegally, and would not wish this matter to come to the notice of the police. So you should seriously consider your involvement in what is potentially a very difficult situation."

"Let me see if I've got this right," I said. "Your client and this Mr Baverstock are both after the same thing only he got there first, and now your client is working on the theory that half a cake is better than none? Fine, I can see how that would be. But I'm not your man. Oils on an oak panel, you said; not my speciality. Canvas or vellum now, that's a different story."

"Mr Lovejoy," One said, and I gritted my teeth. I don't like the 'Mr' bit at the best of times, the way they said it really got my goat. "Our client's information was quite specific."

"Specific but wrong." I said wearily. "Incorrect, false, mistaken, whatever. Take a look if you like," jerking a thumb at the curtain behind me, "but I'd appreciate it if you took a little bit of care while you do it. I've got nothing to hide from you or the police. Unlike, it seems, your client." I couldn't resist that. It got no reaction from the two Stonefaces.

"Thank you, Mr Lovejoy," One said with ponderous politeness, and disappeared through the curtain. Two fixed me with gimlet eyes. And spoke not a word.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me who your client is," I said, as much to break the silence as to make conversation. He didn't answer. "Oh, well. I take it he's a collector? You could let him know I'm always open for commissions, all above board, of course, so if there's anything in particular he's looking for.... "

"I'll pass it on, Mr Lovejoy."

"Thanks." All the time my ears were straining to keep track of One. There were no crashes or splintering sounds from my workshop, but that didn't prove anything. Oh, I knew Courtney was safe enough; I could only hope I wasn't sweating too much.

One came out, heavy features as inscrutable as when he went in. "Mr Lovejoy," he said, "our client had expected this development and has instructed us accordingly. If you can locate the portrait within twenty-four hours and hand it over to us, you will receive a commission of £2,000."

"He is fully aware of your reputation," went on Two, "and has every confidence in you."

"How nice," I said brightly. "But I'll need something like twenty-four days rather than hours. Or even better, weeks."

"We're sorry, Mr Lovejoy, but that isn't possible."

"We'll come back at the same time tomorrow," said the other half of the double act, "to collect the painting and pay your commission."

"And if I haven't found it?" I had to ask, didn't I? But they didn't answer, just stared at me as if I was something clinical under a microscope.

"Good evening, Mr Lovejoy," they said, one after the other, and walked out. I walked straight to the whisky bottle and poured out what was left of the Laphroaig and took a healthy swig. My hands still shook, though whether in fury or fear I couldn't be sure. That bloody Fox had stitched me up. He'd had all night to poke around the workshop, and possibly he'd found Adam; hence the twenty-four hours bit. But if so, why hadn't he just taken it and skipped? Why the elaborate charade? I doubt if he'd show up again; after all, what were a few items of second-hand clothing to someone with over a hundred on him--including, I remembered, my tenner. I fumed. I swore. Talk about adding insult to injury.

So it came to pass that the growl of an engine gave me a distinct shock, then I realised that it sounded more like a lawn mower than The Big Bugger. Dandy Jack and his bloody fire screen. Shit.

Getting Dandy and the fire screen out of his 2CV and into the cottage without the rain touching either of them was a piece of masterly manoeuvring on my part. I, of course, was soaked through, but that didn't matter, did it?

The frame was a beautiful piece of veneer and inlay, though some of it was beginning to lift. The embroidery was nice, too. And in pretty good nick. I gave it a thorough inspection while Dandy revived himself on my sherry and made himself comfortable in the wing chair.

"Lovejoy, you're a lifesaver," he fluted, patting my hand. "How soon, dear boy?"

"Come off it, Dandy, it isn't a rush job and you know it," I said. "Not if you want it done properly. And with something this good I don't work any other way."

"It's the real thing, then?" he asked breathlessly.

"You know damn well it is!" I snorted. "Want some coffee?"

"Oh, yes, please, but only a little whisky in it, dear boy. I'm driving, you know."

"I haven't got any," I snapped, "you'll have brandy and like it," and he grinned at me coyly.

Dandy thinks he's a real character, but he's also a good friend as long as I keep my backside out of reach. He likes patting things. Because he's a friend, I put the percolator on instead of the kettle, and got out the porcelain cups in his honour. As I came back into the living-room the sibilant voice of a NASA escapee began to grow in the distance. How the hell could I have mistaken any other engine for her? And was he travelling! So why the fucking hell was he coming back? To make sure I handed the Courtney over? I'd sooner hand over my granny. On the other hand, two thou is two thou.

"Hmph," Dandy sniffed. "Eric staying with you again?"

"Well, uh," I stalled. "It's a long story."

"Yours usually are, dear boy," he snickered, patting my hand again.

"I'll tell you all about it, one day," I promised. The motorcycle whined past the windows and silence fell like lead sheeting. It didn't last long. Fox came in with a lithe pounce to his stride and dropped the helmet on the sofa. His hair was a mane of living copper and there was a feral delight blazing in his face that transformed already striking features to something else entirely. Dandy's strangled gasp was all I'd hoped for; his eyes were bulging, his jaw sagging, his hands shaking. Lust at first sight. If Fox had seen him peering from behind the flare of the wing-chair's back, he paid no attention to him.

"I've got a job," the Brat announced, "starting tomorrow." He pushed his hand through his hair and grinned fiercely at me. "I can pay you rent."

"The pleasure of your company," I drawled, "is payment enough. Apart from your cooking, of course. Let me introduce you. Dandy Jack, meet Fox; he's staying with me, temporarily. He's a friend of Eric's. Fox, meet Dandy Jack; he's an antiques dealer, has a shop in the town."

"How do you do," Dandy burbled, snatching Fox's hand before it was offered. The Brat seemed to draw into himself, to grow taller somehow, and aloof. His eyes on my face were green lasers, then he smiled. 'This means war', that smile said, as if he'd guessed I'd set him up. I smiled back; 'You and whose army?' as sweetly as you please. "Such a pleasure to meet you." Dandy was saying, practically drooling. In some ways he looked on me more in the nature of a bit of (unobtainable) rough as well as a fellow antiques dealer with the always-useful divvie-gift. When it came to pretty young men, the bits of rough were also-rans. Okay. Fox wasn't strictly pretty--that would be like calling a Manton duelling pistol a cap-gun--but you know what I mean.

"Any friend of Lovejoy's," Fox drawled, and left the rest unsaid. Too self-assured, as well as mealy-mouthed. The asshole. But I was determined I'd cut him down to size, and before he nicked my merchandise. Or Baverstock's, if it came to that.

"Mmm," Dandy purred, patting the leather sleeve, "My goodness, but you're soaked to the skin. You'll catch your death! Take it off at once and come to the fire."

I was de trop. But I like playing gooseberry. "Coffee, Brat? With or without alcohol?"

"With," he smiled. "I'll get it. Part of the house rules as I recall?"

"I can make exceptions."

"I'll bet you can. Why don't you and Dandy talk about veneers and how much it'll cost him while I pay part of my rent." He disengaged his hand and headed for the kitchen with the panniers draped over his shoulder. He was apparently unaware of how Dandy's eyes were focused on his leather-clad backside but I wouldn't place money on it. Dandy should have copped the view I'd had this morning; he'd've had heart failure on the spot.

So Dandy and I talked about veneers, or rather, I tried to. His responses were distracted to say the least, and his questions were about a certain redheaded Brat-Packer rather than antiques and their restoration.

Fox came back with the coffees on the Queen Ann tray. I was ensconced on the sofa by this time, but instead of sitting beside me once he'd handed out the Royal Doulton, he folded cross-legged to sit at my feet and lean back against my knees. Dandy's disappointment almost brought tears to my eyes, and his gaze became accusing. I could read his thoughts as if they were written; 'You always told me you weren't that way inclined....' I'm not 'that way inclined', and I've never played prick-tease with Dandy. Well, not much, anyhow. I eyed Fox uneasily. It was rather like having a hungry tiger curled up at your feet, pretending to be a hearth-cat. I wondered what he'd do next. "A job," I exclaimed. "Doing what and is it legal?"

He glanced up at me, laughter brilliant in his eyes. Suddenly I could see the contained power, the overwhelming vitality and energy that coursed through him-- "Warehouseman," was the prosaic reply. "Night shift, ten to six."

"Night shift!" I said, aghast. "Starting tomorrow?" Dandy gave a somewhat vicious titter. I ignored him. "What about my breakfast?" I demanded. I had to pretend I suspected nothing, didn't I? Besides, I liked his touch with bacon and eggs.

"I'll cook it when I get in."

"Hah! We'll talk about this later." I tried to steer the conversation back to antiques in general and the fire screen in particular, but Dandy wouldn't co-operate. He obviously thought he was the gooseberry, and was far from comfortable about it. Fox, damn him, didn't say another word and didn't move, either. In the end Dandy gulped the rest of his coffee and went into the farewell ritual. I didn't attempt to detain him. Part of my mind was struggling to analyse what Fox was up to. A job, for God's sake? Who was he trying to kid?

"What do you mean, working nights?" I snapped, shutting the door on Dandy's heels and coming back to the sofa. He hadn't shifted much, just lounged back on the cushions instead of me. I sat in the wing-chair. "Where's my shopping?"

"Put away. Why don't we go out and celebrate, landlord? I'll pay."

"Don't be daft! You can't stay here with a night-job! That means sleeping days and I'm not having you draped on that sofa all day looking like a Praxiteles' reject! Little old ladies come in here. They'd have heart-attacks!"

"So I'll find somewhere else when I've got a wage packet," he shrugged, completely unconcerned. "Unless you know a sculptor looking for a model," he added with that smile of his, and I realised he knew who Praxiteles was, which was a bit of a shock. Eric, the apprentice antiques dealer, had asked me if he played right wing for Real Madrid. The pillock couldn't even get the country right. Fox was being bloody careless if he expected me to believe his connections with the Catchpoles. On the other hand, it was so unlikely maybe it was true.

"Where's the warehouse? On the industrial estate? Then you'll need to be in town. I'll ask Dandy Jack if he can put you up, if you like," I offered. "As a favour to me."

"No, thank you," he said gravely, but I knew the laughter wasn't far from the surface. "The Dandy Jacks of this world are not to my taste," as if he was a hundred-year-old connoisseur and I'd offered him supermarket plonk. There's nothing wrong with plonk if you can't afford the real thing. "Do we celebrate?"

I made an instant decision. "We celebrate, and I'm hungry. The Red Lion in town."

"You're on."

I grabbed my jacket--yes, the black leather one, he does not have the monopoly--and Miriam's keys, but he was picking up his helmet.

"Eric's spare is in the kitchen," he said.

"There is no way I am going on that bloody big bugger out there." I said grimly. "We'll go in my car, or not at all."

###

I think I kept my eyes shut most of the time. Leaning against his back, my arms locked around his waist, I didn't have to see the speedometer or the nightscape whipping past to know how fast we were going. That blasted bike felt like a living thing under me, an extension of the body I was clutching--as if I was riding a centaur. But flights of fancy don't stand a cat in hell's chance when your imagination would sooner dwell on things like aquaplaning, excess speed and sharp bends, mud on the road, oncoming traffic.... Our country roads are not designed for that kind of travel, but he had the Devil's own luck. And skill, I had to give him that. Don't misunderstand; it wasn't the bike that got to me exactly, it was not being in control of the bloody thing!

He was enjoying himself, the sod. He handled that motorcycle with cool competence, not really showing off to rattle me, just paying me back a little for Dandy Jack. He didn't tell me we were doing a ton on some stretches, he didn't need to; my bones and guts knew it.

I have never reached the Red Lion so quickly, nor been so glad to arrive. To my surprise, my legs actually worked properly, at least long enough to get me inside and sat down at the table in the bay window.

We ordered; he had the consommé and steak and I had the seafood and steak. I also grabbed the wine list and chose my favourites, since he was paying. Then he was asking sensible questions about Dandy's fire screen and how I'd restore it, and we were halfway through the main course before I realised it. He had a razor-sharp intelligence, I'd soon discovered, and a sardonic sense of humour that appealed to me. He also had an appreciation of the antique and the beautiful, though not in that order. For him an object's beauty was more relevant than its age; he could not see that the loving care that a long-dead craftsman had put into his work could transform ugliness into true beauty.

At that point I noticed that he didn't seem very interested in his chips and salad, and I was still starving, so, "if you're not going to eat all of that," I said cunningly. He laughed and off-loaded the veg onto my plate. But he hung on to his steak.

"Lovejoy, tell me about your divvie-gift?" he asked. "I've heard of it, but--" he broke off and shrugged.

"You mean Eric hasn't blabbed to you?" I snorted. "Pull the other one."

"That's why I asked," he said wryly. "His versions are as embroidered as Dandy's screen."

Yes, I could imagine. I've overheard Eric's ramblings on the subject once or twice. A cross between the Twilight Zone, The X-Men and the Brothers Grimm.

"Not a lot to tell," I said dismissively, making inroads into his chips in case he changed his mind and wanted them back. It is a very difficult thing to put into words after all, and sounds pretty lame when I try. "When I touch an antique I just know when it is what it's supposed to be."

"Sounds like a close cousin to psychometry," he said thoughtfully. "No wonder you're difficult to deal with."

"Me? Difficult? I'm a pushover, Brat, or you'd've been on your way to Wales with your ears ringing." And what's psychometry when it's at home? I was going to say, but he was laughing. "Divvying isn't anything fancy," I snapped, "just very useful for someone in the trade. Some find water, I find antiques. Like that ring of yours. May l?" I held out my hand. I'd been wanting to get my paws on it ever since I first saw the thing.

He stared at me, wary and assessing. Then he worked it off his finger and dropped it into my palm. I got that good old bell again, but I took a quick glance at his hand. You know how it is if you wear a ring for a long time, years, say, the base of the finger where the ring sits narrows a little. His now nude one had that telltale sign. If he'd nicked it, it was a long time ago and he'd been wearing it ever since.

I turned my attention to the ring itself. It was beautiful. And old. Fifteenth century at a guess, and I don't think I've ever seen one quite like it in the flesh so to speak. Oh, sure, the coat of arms was pretty worn, but with the right light at the right angle I should be able to decipher it. There were supporters, too, rising out of the band to frame the bezel; wyverns, I think, judging by the serpentine tail, lack of back legs and a hint of wings. Fascinating and familiar. Inside were hallmarks. I hooked out my jeweller's glass, stuck it in my eye and squinted through it. Oh, yes. I'd have to go through the book to refresh my memory, but I'd bet money I could come up with the date and the goldsmith with no trouble at all.

"Family heirloom?" I asked, loath to hand it back.

"What do you think?" he drawled and took it from me, shoved it over the finger-joint and back in place. I cackled.

"You don't want to know what I think, Reynard." If he had the ring, it obviously came from the same place as the portraits, which could mean he did a little burglary on the side. But if so, why was he here? Back to Square One.... "I had a couple of visitors this afternoon." Now why can't I keep my big mouth shut? I was going to keep mum about that until I'd sussed him out a bit more. Still, in for a penny....

"More Regency fire screens?" he smiled.

"Nope. A couple of well-tailored musclemen."

"You don't say," he marvelled, amusement in his eyes. "Police?" Cocky bugger.

"0h no. Far from it. I'm doing a special job for a client. Someone else got to hear of it and sent them to collect the other half." Startlement showed, alarm, fury and then the Ice Age, in that order.

"Explain," he said, silky-soft and dangerous. Okay, Fox, here's both barrels. Let's see how you react to the whole story.

"Adam Courtney," I said crisply. "Rupert Baverstock's got Ann, this other collector wants Adam."

"Who is he?" He stayed angry. It brought out the autocrat in him.

"I don't know."

"Are they coming back?"

"Tomorrow, five-thirty-ish."

He sat back and picked up his wine glass, and I decided he was going up in my estimation. A lesser man would have become foaming-at-the-mouth profane. The Sauvignon glowed like blood in the subdued lighting, and showed not a tremor. His face was a carven mask; nothing visible at all now. "I see," he said. "What are you going to do about it?" Oh, well, that knocked Theory Number One on the head. So on to Number Two.

"That's my line, Fox, or whatever your name is. Something tells me you've got a stake in all this and I want to know what it is as well as what you're going to do about it--"

"Courtney," he interrupted. "Adam Courtney."

"What about him?"

"My name. Your friend Baverstock has Ann's portrait. I want it back."

"Another family heirloom?" I sneered. "A cheap trick, Fox. I thought you had more class."

That stung him a little, I think. "You wanted answers," he shrugged, cool and relaxed now, on the surface. "I had a fifty-fifty chance of success and it seemed worth the gamble. I lost. Temporarily. I'm not interested in the other portrait; it's her I'm taking back with me."

Now that was heresy. "Are you crazy?" I howled, shocked off-balance. "As a pair they're worth a fortune, even if Nicholas Hilliard didn't sign 'em!"

"Why should he?" Fox said, sipping wine. "He didn't paint them."

"Baverstock thinks he did, so does the Mystery Man. And they're genuine," I added with a snap, tapping my chest. "I know, Brat."

"Of course they are, but not by Hilliard. He stuck mainly to miniatures and in any case the family couldn't afford his prices. They were originally one large panel. By Penton."

I choked. Literally. I wheezed, croaked, flailed my arms and reached across to grab a double handful of black fabric.

"What?" I screamed in a whisper. "He's only a name--none of his work has been identified--"

"He'd signed it, but a benighted idiot had it cut up in the late I700's," he went on, ignoring the death grip I had on his t-shirt. "But I've got the household accounts that list its commission, and his letter accepting it."

"Oh God," I moaned. I wanted to cry. To read some books, you'd think there was only a handful who specialised in miniatures in those days, and most of them were called Hilliard. But we know the names of men whose works have never been linked up with them. Thomas Penton was one of them.

"He was said at the time to be greater than Nick Hilliard," Fox continued, "but he didn't get the Royal custom. Offended Elizabeth somehow. He was an eccentric, tended to refuse commissions if he didn't like the sitter."

I could understand that. "He liked Ann," I said, remembering the happy vitality that had been fully revealed as I'd cleaned off the last layer of grime.

"Yes." He smiled and those marble features softened into an expression that made me want to look away. "She had that effect on people."

"You, too?" I sighed. "I have to confess I fell head over heels as well. Authentic household accounts?"

"'Item'," he said softly, "this tenth day of the month of May in the year of our Lord I584, 20 pounds for Master Thomas Penton to record the marriage of the Lord Adam Courtney and Lady Ann Darcy. To be set in the wall between the windows of the gallery.' You can dowse them if you wish."

"Divvie," I corrected automatically. He'd quoted it with a strong accent and stress on the words that made it sound--genuine. That was how Shakespeare should be spoken, but I would not be distracted. "Are you telling me you would throw away a unique combination by splitting them?"

"I want Ann back," he said quietly. "She was stolen from the house and I intend that she returns. I don't care much how I accomplish it, nor who is harmed in the process. Unless they are innocent parties to it. As you seem to be."

"Thanks a lot. Now about the burglar?"

"He's been dealt with. He gave me Baverstock's name. A friend at Christies gave me the names of those who specialise in panel-cleaning, which led me to Hepple. He told me he'd sold you some special fluid."

"That simple? Fox, those portraits are worth a fortune each with that provenance, more if you've got household accounts and wills down the years keeping tabs on them. As a pair they're--they're--" I was becoming incoherent thinking about the possible price ticket. And all this pillock wanted was one particular picture to take home. There was an obvious conclusion to be jumped to, and I felt a gut-wrenching disappointment as I jumped. Damn it, I didn't trust Fox as far as I could spit a rat, but I liked him. "You're a collector as well, aren't you?" I accused. He knew what I meant. Most collectors are the lifeblood of the antiques trade, harmless happy magpies. But as I said before, there are the secret gloaters and those I don't like.

"No." He shook his head. "You have my word. She hangs in one alcove in the sitting room, with the Adam in the other. In plain view, Lovejoy, even if I have few visitors."

"Oh. That's all right, then," I muttered. I think that was when I finally believed him. "You're sussing me out, trying to find out if I had her so you could do a little burglary of your own?"

"Yes," he admitted, "that was the original idea. There was, after all, no need for you to be involved. All I want is Ann."

"Great. What about Eric? You bribed the little toe-rag and packed him off to Wales?" That hurt, by God.

"No. He's fishing by his lake. But I didn't bribe him, Lovejoy. My word on it. It was more a case of 'in vino veritas'," he said sardonically, refilling both glasses. "He thought I was a friend of yours, with a painting I wanted you to clean. You wouldn't be able to do it, he said, because of this other job you had on. He wouldn't betray you to an enemy."

Wonderful. That was supposed to make me feel better? That bloody Eric--but Fox was right about his loyalty and he'd be as sick as a parrot when he found out what he'd done. It was a crying shame someone as smooth as the Brat had gone to work on him; he wouldn't have stood a chance. But I had this latter-day Adam Courtney sorted out now. Daddy's a west-country landowner, private education....

I've noticed over the years that public schools, especially the frightfully upmarket ones, tend to churn out two types:- your average ten-a-penny chinless wonders, and occasionally your hundred-year-old whiz-kids who are the Borgias reborn in all but name. Like the Lord Alexander Felsham. Like Fox.

"Okay, so field this one. What are you going to do about Ann and Baverstock?"

"Meet him," he said. "Talk to him. Perhaps he'll see reason. If he doesn't--" he broke off and shrugged. "There are other ways."

"None of them legal," I snorted. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-four going on a century or two," he said solemnly.

"Bloody public schools," I snapped. "You're practically the same age as Eric, God help me, and you're like chalk and cheese--own-brand blackcurrant and Sauvignon," raising my glass. "What happened to youthful insecurity? Acne? Ever had a spot in your life? Too much poise and education, Fox, it's not natural."

"I walk my own path," he said. "Have done for a long time. Some of us grow up a lot sooner than others, Lovejoy. It's no big deal."

That could explain a lot, if he wasn't a borderline sociopath. "Are you sure you don't give a damn about the other portrait?"

"Quite sure. That ball is in your court, I won't interfere."

"If I hand him over, they'll give me two thou. They said. If I hand him over--"

"What will Baverstock give you?" he asked, fascinated.

"No more work," I grunted. "Baverstock isn't a villain, and he doesn't hire them. Apart from his collecting, that is. He'll cut his losses and I'll get no more back-handers. If I had more time, I'd copy young Courtney and let the Mystery Man have that. I don't like the way he operates." I began to wonder how Fox would operate when Baverstock gave him the heave-ho, but I wasn't daft enough to ask him. After all, what I don't know I can't be an accessory to, can I? "This job of yours," I said instead. "Is it for real?"

"Yes, of course. I don't know how long this will take and my cash won't last for ever."

"Sensible, I suppose. You're welcome to stay at the cottage if you want," I added grudgingly, "but not on the sofa. I have got a spare room, but it'll be a mattress on the floor rather than a proper bed. It'll be basic and cramped."

"Thanks," he said, sounding as if he meant it. "That'll be fine by me, I'm not fussy."

We finished off the main course in companionable silence while I thought about what he'd told me. It seemed logical, if potentially on the shady side of legal, but nobody's perfect. Then something struck me. I'd found the original Adam in Burke's Extinct Peerages, and there was no question that the coats of arms in the book and on the portrait matched up, while his ring certainly had the same wyvern supporters. So if the barony had lapsed through lack of issue, how come he was the son of a land-owning Courtney?

"Erm," I said, unable to resist it, "did Burke get it wrong? Burke as in Extinct Peerages, that is?" He smiled at me, eyes glittering with amusement. Damn it, I like fencing with this Brat.

"No," he said. "The last Baron had only two children. Michael and Julian both died in the Crimea without legitimate issue. Note the key word."

"'Bastard slips shall not take root'," I intoned and he chuckled.

"Exactly. But bastards can grow rich enough to buy out an eccentric and impoverished old man, lock, stock and barrel. Which is what my great-great grandfather did--John Tarrant. Changed his name to Courtney-Tarrant and dropped the Tarrant as soon as the old man died."

"Where did he get the cash from?" I demanded, fascinated.

"Antiquities," Fox said apologetically. "I suppose the polite term for him was archaeologist, but he made a fortune at it. There wasn't a lot of it left once he'd bought the estate, of course, but as a working farm it made a living."

"Is it still?"

"No. Over recent years the land's been sold off piecemeal. All that's left now is the house and a few acres. Part of the South Wood, as a matter of fact," touching the scar by his eye.

"So the portraits were stolen from there?"

He nodded, face grim and angry again, and sad. So I asked him what else was taken. The list appalled me. "Some Limoges," he answered indifferently, "a couple of Fabergé things, "--I winced--"some books; two Caxtons, Byron's Corsair signed by him and a I5th Century book of hours. A pair of Mantons, some Turners, a Van Dyck--"

"Stop!" I couldn't stand any more. "Have the police got any leads?" Then answered my own question. "No, because you haven't reported it," and gave a disgusted snort. "Fox, you're a pillock."

We were on dessert by now, or rather I was working through fresh fruit salad and clotted cream while he'd opted for the cheese board. He didn't react to the insult, just smiled and shrugged. It wasn't an act. He simply did not care. Except for that portrait of Ann Darcy. I sighed and shook my head. He needed to be taken in hand and re-educated.

###

We got back to the cottage by about eleven o'clock, and I went up to the spare room to see what could be done. It was piled up with cardboard boxes, sheet-draped furniture awaiting restoration and stacks of oldish books. I heaved some of the boxes into taller edifices, dragged out the mattress from behind the early Victorian walnut and rosewood wardrobe, pushed the massive thing back against the wall and let the mattress flop to the floor. There was just enough space for it. But the only light came from the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling's central beam; the small window was completely blocked behind a barricade of assorted stuff. No, it was not junk. All most of it needed was a little attention and I could sell for some very good profits. In the meantime, the room wasn't exactly five-star, but in the circumstances the Brat could think himself lucky.

He was hovering at the door when I turned round, the roll of blankets clutched in his arms. He looked pleased.

"Thanks," he said. "This will do me fine. Coffee's made."

"Great," I said, and sneezed. The room was a little dusty. We sort of waltzed past each other in the doorway and I staggered downstairs, blasting away nasally at every other step.

The fit had worn itself out by the time Fox joined me. The fire was burning healthily and I was half asleep on the sofa, full of food, wine and feeling knackered. He, on the other hand, was so full of energy he practically crackled. He handed me my coffee, then sat cross-legged on the floor as he had before and leaned back against my knees. It didn't feel strange this time, just a natural part of the evening and the companionship--I felt as if I'd known him for years, part and parcel of my life.... Who needs a Labrador when there's a Fox available?

"What are you going to do about the portrait?" he asked, sipping his coffee. I took a careful sniff of mine first. By the smell of it he'd added a good quantity of brandy. A Fox with taste, this one. I sipped it respectfully.

"I don't know," I admitted. "Could let Baverstock know what's going on, I suppose, but it won't make any difference. He doesn't like trouble. Neither do I, and I also like the sound of two thou," I added. After all, it was still his painting, regardless of who pinched it, so in a way I felt I owed him the truth. "Wonder how he knew about Ann and Adam? Baverstock wouldn't have talked about them to anyone. Except me and then only up to a point."

"I would think my burglar told him," Fox said quietly. "If he supplied one hoarder, why not two?"

"Makes sense," I agreed.

"I'll go and have another talk with him," and he rose smoothly to his feet, leaving his coffee half-finished.

"Now?" I protested. "It's midnight, for God's sake!"

"No, it isn't. I can be back by dawn."

"If the cops don't pull you over," I snapped. "Don't be any more of a pillock than you can help, Brat!"

"Lovejoy," he said, laughing down at me, "go to bed." He looked like a living flame and I came very close to hating him for his vitality. "See you tomorrow."

"Don't expect me to bail you out of the local nick!" I snarled. "Where are you going?"

"London," he said. "Have you got a spare key or should I get you out of bed?"

"You do and I'll break your fucking neck!" I yelled, digging my own key out of my pocket and throwing it at him. "You're crazy! Insane! Barking mad!"

Home-truths made no difference. He put on jacket and helmet and was out of the door with a casual wave. Seconds later The Big Bugger launched herself into the night with a howl that rattled the windows. Bloody maniac.

###

"Lovejoy." I struggled from the quicksand of strange dreams beyond the reach of memory, unsure if I was relieved or bereft. I forced my eyes open and found my bedroom gloomy in the watery light that filtered through Janie's third best chintz curtaining. Fox was a white-faced apparition perched on the edge of my bed. All of that evening's energy was spent--he looked gaunt and tired.

"I'm going to bed," he said, before I could speak. "His name's Mark Wendlow and he lives in Stambourne, west of Sudbury. He specialises in the I6th century; books, paintings, weapons, jewellery, you name it. A bad man to cross. I'll give you the details later." Then he was gone and I lay there blinking like a myopic owl, wondering if I was awake or not.

It took me ten minutes or so to decide I was and I crawled reluctantly out of bed. There was neither sound nor movement from the spare room--Fox was probably dead to the world. Mark Wendlow. The name rang no bells and I thought I was well up on all the collectors, both legit and undercover, in the area. So legwork would have to be done, but not necessarily by me.

While the kettle was coming to the boil I picked up the phone and dialled Tinker's number. If I had to be up at eight o'clock in the morning, so could he.

It took him a long time to answer the phone. "Good morning," I carolled in reply to his wordless grunt. "How are you this bright day, Tink, old soldier?"

"Sod off," he suggested. At least, I think that's what he said.

"Money, Tink," I said, and the heavy breathing acquired a sort of acquisitive overtone. "I want you to make some very discreet enquiries for me--and I mean very. This man could be a problem."

"Ungh?"

"A bad man to cross, or so I've heard, but he's crossing me at the moment." That earned me yet another grunt but as he hadn't hung up on me I carried on with Wendlow's address as far as I knew it. "See what you can find out," I finished, "but be careful, Tink. I'll make it worth your while."

He growled something and slammed the phone down. However, I was still no nearer deciding what I was going to do about the portrait.

Time. That was all I needed, and it was the one thing I didn't have. Still, I'm pretty good at improvising, and if there was a way to have my cake and eat it, I'd do my damnedest to find it.

###

Breakfast over, I wandered into the workshop, got Adam out and propped him on the bench. His face was a sallow oval above the small ruff, framed by a featureless mass of brown hair, familiar as an old friend now. Brownish eyes stared straight out at me, blank and unseeing. Ann's had been the same until I'd cleaned her up, then all the small details were there to bring her to life once more. The top couple of inches of the panel were already bright and clear--the background was a creamy-ochre and everything on it stood out now in wonderful clarity; the heads on the golden wyverns and the top of the shield; argent a chevron sable with three fleur de lys or and a label of three points azure for difference. The label of the firstborn son and heir. I wondered if he and Ann had produced any kids, or if the line had descended through his brothers or sisters.

Two thousand pounds. That was a lot of money, but only a fraction of what he'd fetch at auction.

I sighed and covered him up again. Somehow I didn't have the heart to do any more work on him. I didn't want to get as attached to him as I had to Ann, not when I would be handing him over this evening and there was a strong probability I wouldn't be seeing him for a long time, if at all. And then there was Rupert Baverstock. It was pretty obvious that he'd know all about this Mark Wendlow and the way he operates. But now was not the time to ask him. I would have to wait a while, see what Tinker could find out, and get a full report from Fox once he'd surfaced. I hate waiting.

To take my mind off it, I started work on Dandy's fire-screen and that, plus a customer or two, kept me occupied until late afternoon.

There was no sign of life from upstairs and I was getting fed up with my own company when the sound of a Range Rover pulling up outside brought joy and relief to my starved soul.

"Hello," she called as she came into the cottage. "Are you home, Lovejoy?"

"In here, love," I warbled and pranced out to meet her.

Lady Jane Felsham has everything. She is lovely, intelligent, witty, compassionate, rich and married. I have loved her for a long time and she knows it. I have been trying to get her into bed for a long time and she has held me off with style and grace--for a long time. One day she'll weaken and she'll curse those wasted months.... I know, I've got quite a track record and one hell of a reputation, but most of them don't count. After all, when you're an antiques dealer and on the knocker, you'll do anything to make a buy if the item in question is worth it. Bored housewives with the odd antique they can be persuaded/seduced out of have given me some very happy memories and some very profitable prizes, believe me.

Okay, yes, I said anything, and I mean it. It isn't always bored housewives that answer the doorbell, sometimes it's househusbands--clones of Dandy Jack or Quentin Crisp--but when it comes to business I'm not fussy. I remember one lavender queen who kept me there most of the afternoon. I came away with an aching back, an extended repertoire and the most exquisite I8th century fan I've seen for years. Apart from the sexual athletics, it cost me a tenner. Two months later I sold it for five hundred. I've paid him a few more discreet visits over the last year or so, gaining a pair of Meissen shepherdesses, a very nice piece of Bohemian glass and another fan, making a grand total of something in the region of a couple of thousand on the deals. So you see, it doesn't pay to be choosy in this trade. Not if you want to make a profit. Me, I'll play anyone's games for profit.

Thanking my lucky stars that Fox was asleep I put my arms around Janie and gave her a hug. She smelt gorgeous. Something extremely French and horrendously expensive. I said so and she laughed, slipping free with her usual skill.

"Alexander brought it back from Brussels for me," she said. Good old Alexander. He is handsome, intelligent, witty, not particularly compassionate, rich and married to Lady Jane. He is also away a lot. "He brought me something else I'd like you to look at when you have a minute."

"Bring it over tonight," I suggested recklessly, "I could examine it over a candle-lit dinner for two--"

"Not three?" she cooed sweetly. "Isn't that Eric's new motor-cycle out there under the tarpaulin?"

"You've been peeking," I muttered, irritated. She is too curious for her own good, this woman. "No, it isn't Eric's. She belongs to a mate of his," I added, perpetuating the fable. Well, why not? It's as good a story as any. "Eric is terrorising Welsh fish again."

"Poor things. Does he ever catch any?" A good question, that. I've had plenty of stories, descriptions and diagrams, but nary a fin nor a scale. Not even a photograph.

"What do you think?" I shrugged. "Coffee, tea or something stronger?"

"Tea, please," and we retired to the comfortable warmth of the kitchen.

"Janie," I said thoughtfully as I pottered about with kettle and teapot and Earl Grey, "do you know a bloke called Wendlow, Mark Wendlow?"

"Sounds familiar. I think he's one of Alexander's cronies. Why?"

"Oh, no reason. I just heard the name on the grapevine and wondered who he was, that's all."

"I see," she drawled knowingly. "I should be careful, if I were you, Lovejoy. If he is one of Alexander's business acquaintances you could get your fingers burned."

"Not me, love. You'll come over later on, then? Fox is working tonight so we won't be disturbed--"

"Fox? Is that a name or a nickname?"

"Nickname. His hair's so red you could use him for a beacon. What do you say?"

"I'd love to, but I can't," she said with regret. "Alexander and I are going to the theatre." That meant London, of course, not the local amateur dramatic society in the village hall. I have this fantasy; Lord Alexander would conveniently disappear, Jane would fall into my arms and we'd live happy ever after, her keeping me in the manner to which I long to become accustomed. I could cope with Felsham Hall as an address. You should see the antiques in that place; every one the genuine article - I've made sure of that for her.

"Tomorrow night?" In the living room one of the clocks struck the hour, while upstairs the plumbing gave me the two minute warning. I swore on both counts. One, it was five o'clock and Wendlow's muscle would be turning up in half an hour and two, the Brat was about. Before I could get to the living room to head him off, he appeared in the kitchen doorway, barefoot and looking like he was posing for a Hollywood glossy in his tight jeans and black t-shirt. How is it he looks elegant while someone else in the same gear merely looks scruffy?

Lady Jane Felsham, I noticed, was giving him the kind of once-over I've seen her give to young hunters she was thinking of buying. I half expected her to inspect teeth and hooves.

The Brat smiled at her, radiating charm and sex appeal.

She smiled back, radiating sex appeal and charm.

I stood between them. "Janie this is Fox Fox this is the Lady Jane Felsham," I gabbled, "who is just leaving."

"I am?" she asked, puzzled. "Lovejoy, don't be silly. How do you do, Fox?" and held out her hand. He took it and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss it. Thank God he didn't. I might have thrown up, or hit him.

"I'm pleased to meet you," he said gravely, "Eric has told me a lot about you." I bet he has, the bastard. Both of them need kicking from here to next week.

"Come and sit down," she said,-"there's plenty of tea in the pot." But he smiled and shook his head, padded to the stove and heated the kettle again.

"You're up early," I snapped. "You don't start work until later."

"Thought I'd hang around," he said with a casual shrug. "I might learn some more about antiques. I didn't realise you had company." The liar. My back to Jane, I wriggled my eyebrows at him and grimaced. Time was getting on, and I wanted her safely out of the way in case the muscle lurched in early. But he ignored me, didn't even glance at me. His eyes were on Janie's face, appreciation and speculation in their depths. Yes, you sod, I thought. I can read you like a bloody book.

Lady Jane, however, did not seem to get the message, or perhaps he wasn't her type after all. She gathered up her shoulder-bag and spread her smile equally between us. "I'd like to stay and chat," she said, "but I really must fly or I'll be late. It's been nice meeting you, Fox, I hope you enjoy your stay with Lovejoy," and she was heading for the door. I stared after her, nonplussed.

"But--" I began. Too late. The door had shut behind her, and the smell of hot Bovril was overpowering her lingering fragrance. I glared at him, obscurely aware it was all his fault.

"Have you decided?" he asked quietly, stopping me in mid-invective.

"Yes." He dropped into Jane's chair and leaned his elbows on the table, the steaming mug poised between his long fingers, waiting expectantly. I debated briefly with myself about including him in. I still didn't trust him, but he did have a vested interest in the portrait, and I could remember all too easily the dangerousness that lay just underneath the trendy Brat-Packer image. He'd be a good man to have at your back in a nasty situation, I decided. "In this instance, Brat, it's a case of take the money and run. Until I can think of a good scam and put it together, one that'll leave us home and clear and above suspicion. What exactly did you find out from your burglar, apart from the few pearls of wisdom you scattered at my feet at some ungodly hour this morning?"

"Not a lot more. He's unmarried, your age, lives in the Manor House just outside the village and works in London. He's a stockbroker."

"With an interest in the I6th century."

"More of an obsession than an interest, apparently. Jerry said it gives him the creeps."

Now that might be useful. "Jerry being your friendly neighbourhood house-breaker. One day soon I'd like to know how you tracked him down. The list you gave me last night was all of smallish things, easily carried. Did he clean you out?"

"No," he drawled, eyes glittering with a growing anticipation at odds with the laziness of his voice. "Thinking of baiting a trap?"

"Could be. Do you have anything else Elizabethan you wouldn't mind risking?"

"Odd things. What did you have in mind?"

"Can you get hold of them easily?"

"Of course I can."

"Good. So what are they, these odd things?"

"All sorts. What are you looking for?"

"Bloody hell, I don't know!" I snapped impatiently. "Use your loaf, for God's sake! Here is a man with what amounts to a fetish--why? Does he believe he's Raleigh reincarnated? Does he want to retreat from the 20th century by recreating the I6th? In either case what would appeal to him?"

"Things he can hold," Fox answered slowly, "things he can use or wear."

"Can you find that sort of stuff and will you risk them?"

"Yes," he said. "I'll bring what seems best." He stood up, a rueful smile on his face. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Probably won't be before tomorrow night."

"There's no rush," I pointed out. I was getting a little fed up of these sudden departures. "For a start you've got a job to go to at ten, then there's the matter of food. Your last meal was twenty-four hours ago and you're not going to get far on one mug of bilge water. This isn't an SAS raid, you know. This is going to take time and subtlety, and in the meanwhile Adam will be safe enough with Wendlow. How much co-operation will Jerry give you?"

"All I need," he said promptly, sitting down again. "What about Baverstock?"

"I was just coming to him. I'm not sure how we can use him at the moment, but we'll see. And no, I haven't forgotten about Ann."

"Introduce me to him, Lovejoy. That's all I need and he'll co-operate as well."

"Oh, yes," I snorted, "of course he will. What are you going to do? Seduce him? Hypnotise him?"

"If I have to. Will you--"

"Maybe. Shut up. I'm trying to think." I was also wondering how it was that Fox's burglar was still running around free as a bird and apparently happy to give information and assistance. A little judicial blackmail, perhaps? Help me out or I'll shop you/damage you, delete as appropriate? I wouldn't put it past him. "The best thing you can do now is grab something to eat, then make yourself and the bike scarce until they've gone. We can continue the War Council afterwards."

"All right," he agreed cheerfully enough. "You're the boss, for now."

"What does that mean?" I snapped.

"That we'll try it your way first," he drawled. "If it doesn't work out I do it my way. However it's done, the two portraits will be back here. Ann goes home with me, the other one is yours." I think my jaw sagged.

"Don't you mean keep it for Baverstock?" I said.

"No," he smiled, "for yourself. My gift to you. It's yours to do with as you choose; to give away, sell or keep. After I get it back from Wendlow." He meant it. The raving loony meant every idiotic word. But what had happened to the 'we'? "I'll be careful how I do it, so he won't think you're involved in any way," he went on blithely. "I'll give you the provenances as well--"

"You can't do that!" I howled. "Fox, it's worth a fortune!"

"So?' He leaned back, relaxed and smiling, charming and magnetic. "It's mine, or rather, it was mine. Now it's yours. They'll be here soon so I'll make tracks."

"Why me?" I demanded, "what're you playing at? You're insane!" but he finished his Bovril and stood up, gazing at me with what looked like real affection as well as amusement in his eyes while I sat there spluttering like Miriam on a bad day. I thought he was going to answer, but he didn't. He just chuckled and walked out of the kitchen. Minutes later the trade-mark roar of the powerful engine announced his departure.

###

I was still sitting there, feeling as if I'd been taken for a spin by a whirlwind and trying to work out what his game was, when the shop bells chimed merrily and a familiar voice was raised.

"Mr Lovejoy, " said One.

"Here," I answered, and pulled myself together. After all, it's not every day I'm given a millionaire's ransom and minutes later have to give it away in turn, if only temporarily. It isn't pleasant.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in the living-room, mammoth-like in their dark coats and hats and as menacing as sabre tooth tigers. Modern Nature, red in chequebook and shoulder-holster....

"Did you succeed in locating the portrait, Mr Lovejoy?" One asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Excellent," said Two. "Our client's faith in you has been justified. We would wish to inspect it, of course."

"Of course," I repeated and ducked into my workshop. I picked him up, whispered an apology and told him it wouldn't be for long, then took him out to them. Even so, it was hard to hold him out, harder still to actually let go. One took the picture, carefully unwrapped it and they both studied it in silence.

"On behalf of our client," Two pronounced, "we thank you for your services." He put a massive fist inside his coat and I froze. But all he brought out was a narrow brown package. "Two thousand pounds," he said, "in used notes, low denomination. You are welcome to count it."

I'm not daft. I counted every last one. Twice, and they waited in respectful silence while I did it. Both times it came to two thou exactly. "All present and correct," I said with a brightness I was beginning to feel. There's nothing like hard currency to cheer a man up.

"Then our business is concluded," One said. "Good evening, Mr Lovejoy." Two echoed him and they marched out--I swear, they were in step.

Two thousand pounds. I counted them again, just for the sheer sensual hell of it, and poured myself a very large celebratory brandy.

###

Fox was back within the hour, bringing me an aromatic life-saver.

"Fish and chips," I grinned. "You must have read my mind. What about you?" He was in the kitchen mixing up more Bovril and hot water.

"Already had mine," he said over his shoulder, but something told me that was a lie. I'd already noticed that his face was, if anything, whiter than usual and pinched-looking, and there was a febrile tension about him that made me uneasy. I wondered again about drugs. "Any trouble with your visitors?"

"No," I said. "It went as smooth as silk. Let's talk about Baverstock." That got his attention. I topped up my brandy and flopped into the wing chair, catching the fork he tossed me, while he once more took the floor with my knees as a backrest. "Do you honestly think he can be persuaded to hand her over to you, just like that? Are you really that naïve?" I continued, in between shovelling chips.

He snickered into his Bovril. "I haven't been naïve for a very long time. Yes, I can persuade him. She was, after all, stolen from me."

"Ah, but can you prove it? He may not go in for strong-arm tactics, but he's no fool."

"You like him, don't you?" tie asked shrewdly.

"He's okay, as hoarders go," I said. "Yes, I suppose I like him, up to a point. He is also a useful meal ticket at times."

"Wendlow could be as well, if we play our cards right." Aha. So we're back to the 'we', are we? Unless it's the Royal one. "He won't come to any harm through me, if that's worrying you. He'll only be short of a portrait. My word on it."

"If I introduce you." I polished off the last of the fish and chips, wadded the papers into a ball and tossed them into the fire. "Why not get this Jerry to do it?" I suggested, taking a swig of brandy.

"He's Baverstock's pet thief. You, on the other hand, are a semi-respectable antiques dealer."

I reached forward and cuffed him round the ear. "Watch your manners, Reynard, or you'll be out on your lughole," I said. "Not so much of the semi, if you please."

"Eminently respectable pillar of the antiques society," he corrected himself docilely, but another snicker spoilt it somewhat. "Besides, he might be willing to tell us something about Wendlow. What are you going to tell him?"

"The truth, of course," I said indignantly. He looked round at me, eyes brilliant with laughter.

"Of course," he agreed and earned himself another clip as I stretched for the phone.

Baverstock was home. "Something has happened," I told him. "We need to talk." He immediately leaped to the conclusion that the panel had fallen to bits, developed death-watch beetle, Dutch Elm disease, and he started to get shrill with panic. I soothed him as best I could without telling him anything, and made an appointment at eight thirty tomorrow evening. I was aware of Fox's smothered mirth as I put the phone down and it irritated me, so I struck back. "Why do you want me to have the Adam portrait?" I asked him casually, and the shutters came down behind his eyes.

"Why not?" he said, turning back to his Bovril. He shrugged, and I could feel the movement of the long muscles against my knees. "You'll give him a better home than Baverstock. Or Wendlow."

"Not good enough. Try again." He put the mug in the hearth and turned round. There was that amused affection back in his face but his smile was taut.

"Rent?" he drawled. I threatened to wallop him again. "Compensation?"

"For what?"

He shrugged again, expression becoming grim. "We don't know how this is going to turn out," he snapped. "I want to be sure you're not going to suffer for it, be out of pocket. Sometimes," he went on, and there was suddenly an incredible bitterness in his eyes, "I cannot stomach the lies--" he broke off, coming to his feet with a Iithe speed that took me totally by surprise.

Something happened. I don't know what. He didn't change exactly. It was as if he'd been pulled into sharper focus. Everything about him was the same as it had been before, only more so. I'd had a glimpse of this, before, I realised. Fire and ice. Something elemental, savage and unpredictable and overwhelmingly alive. And very, very dangerous. Then he was just the Brat again, like a switch being thrown, but the tension in him was close to breaking point. I had another swallow of brandy for the shock.

"I'm sorry," he said, so quietly I could hardly hear it. "That was careless of me." His hands were shaking as he raked them through his hair.

"What are you on?" I asked as gently as I could. He stared at me blankly. "What drugs are you on?"

"I'm not," he said and I would swear on a stack of bibles his puzzlement was genuine. But then the bitterness swept back and he was laughing it, an unpleasant sound, cruel and mocking. His teeth were very white, very sharp. In truth a fox. Or a red wolf. "I'm going out," he said abruptly. "I'll be back tomorrow evening."

"Oh, no, you don't," I said. "I want answers, Brat."

"There are none." Arrogant sod.

He scooped up his helmet and started for the door. But I was already there, leaning nonchalantly against it. "Management Rules, Reynard," I said coldly. "And that means my rules. I don't do business with homicidal maniacs, it's against my religion. Give me answers."

"Get out of my way." His whisper was like frosted silk, the kind of sound a sword makes when it is drawn from its scabbard. The switch had been triggered the other way again and now all that deadly intent was focused on me. He dropped the helmet and moved forward, a smooth hunter's glide. I looked into his green Fenris-eyes and for a moment could not even breathe. His hands fastened like metal bands on my upper arms, icy-cold and with more strength than I had thought possible. He smiled, a feral baring of his teeth, and I was put to one side as if I was no more than an importunate child.

I dragged air into my lungs and braced my hands on his shoulders, digging my fingers into the locked muscles beneath the leather jacket. The tension in him was tight-wound and poised on the edge of violence and it howled a warning to every instinct I possessed. I should have been scared out of what few wits remained to me. But I wasn't. Maybe it was the brandy I'd drunk, maybe it was the memory of the affection I had seen in him not so very long ago, but I knew I had no real cause to be afraid of him. I also knew that if I let him go out the door, there would be more wormwood and gall for him to add to the weight he already carried.

"No," I said. "Adam, listen to me." It was the first time I'd used his real name, and it startled him. The clamp of his fingers eased a little and I watched sanity come back into his eyes, watched the self-loathing crowding in on its heels. He started to pull away but it was my turn to hold on. "I don't know what devil is driving you, and if you say it's not drugs then I believe you, but you're not going anywhere tonight. We are going to sit down and talk about it and if I can help, I will."

He was back in control now. His hands dropped to his sides and those striking features were a blank mask. "I have no answers for you," he said quietly. "Let me go, Lovejoy."

"Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing." The muscles under my hands were quivering with the effort to remain inactive, shouting the lie. His eyes, though, were river deep, limpid and calm. There was nothing wrong, bar my overactive imagination. Nothing wrong at all. "I'm going home," he explained, "to collect the bait for the trap."

Trap. And I was the one who had almost walked into it. There was a faint sheen of perspiration on his skin, highlighting the line of the proud bones beneath. His breathing was fast and shallow, nostrils flaring slightly at each in-drawing, and close as we were I could see the ghosts of freckles on the pallor of his cheekbones. Something that was almost pain twisted in my stomach and of their own volition my hands moved to cup his face, fingers tangling in the fine silk of his hair. My thumb traced the line of the scar; his skin felt chill, smooth as ice, even the untidy ridge of tissue.

His eyes widened with shock and cold fingers closed round my wrists, the band of his ring cutting into me. But he did not use that athlete's strength of his to break free. Under my ribs my divvie-bell was tolling away, getting mixed up with my heartbeat somehow. The whole room was moving with the rhythm of it, all except Fox, and my vision of him was sharp and clear. He was as unyielding as marble, as pure as a I4th century samurai sword and as innocent as a carnivore, and more alive than anyone I have met before.

"Lovejoy," he said shakily, "you're a fool," and leaned through the few inches that separated us and kissed me. His lips were cool and soft and sent a bolt of lightning through me clear to my groin. Which is daft, isn't it? I've already said I'm not that way inclined and I'm not even if business is business and he most certainly isn't business and then there's Janie and the way I feel about her and the way he'd looked at her and he was the last man I'd've thought would be--what in God's name was happening to me? This was absolutely crazy, things were getting out of control and I should be shoving him off. But did I really want to? The kiss deepened, and I suddenly recognised the tension in him for what it was. An over-riding hunger, and it triggered off a hunger of my own.

Confusion, I decided, could wait; life's for living, pleasure's for sharing and I wanted him. It was as simple as that. After all, making love is like finding antiques on the knocker; you accept it when and where it's offered no matter how unlikely. I opened my mouth for the satin-glide of his probing tongue, welcoming the wild-fire surge that flooded through me--

It's a cliché to say time stood still, but in a weird kind of way it did. My consciousness narrowed down to the taste of him, the scent of him, the texture of his hair and the shape of his head in my hands. A distant part of my mind recognised that this had been building between us ever since he turned up on the doorstep only a matter of hours ago. Hours? I think I've known him all my life--I couldn't begin to understand all the whys and wherefores, it was just there, complete in itself--

He broke the kiss first, pushing back against the death grip I had on him. "You taste of brandy," he whispered. "I could get drunk on you."

"Be my guest," I said crazily and he began to chuckle. It felt very good to be so close--the strength of his lean body was added fuel for the fire that was spreading out from my groin.

"Lovejoy, you're impossible," he sighed, voice husky-rich with affection and desire. "Are you sure? You haven't a clue what you're doing."

"Of course I'm sure!" I said, stung, and began to tell him all about the lavender queen--Kevin, I think his name was--

"Lovejoy," he cut in, "shut up," and kissed me again. I slid my hands down his spine to cup leather-clad buttocks, and he gave a small growl of pleasure against my mouth, body arching lithe and supple as a great feline. I could feel the power of him, the hard potency of his erection pressing against my belly, the silken heat of his mouth and the incandescence that was pulsing beat for beat with my heart. His lips moved across the line of my jaw, leaving a lava-trail of kisses. I buried my face in his hair; he smelt of sandalwood and myrrh. I found an ear and kissed it, nuzzling in to nibble the lobe. He shivered and pressed closer, hips moving in rhythm with mine, spiralling sensation to a higher sphere.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against my throat. At least, I think that's what he said. I couldn't hear much above the thunder of my pulse. Then everything was drifting away from me, except that incredible fire, and I was falling slowly into a black velvet void wrapped around like Lucifer in wings of flame.

###

I woke up in stages, the way I usually do, and lay for a while curled around my pillow wondering what had awakened me. The luminous dial of my old alarm clock told me it was ten past one and I knew it did not lie. I was heavy-limbed and lethargic, still more than half asleep, and there was the echo of a weird and incredibly erotic dream floating around in my skull. I smirked to myself in the darkness. So why was I wasting time? I should be sound asleep and going through the action-replays. Which were--what? I frowned. The dream skittered away from me as they usually do when you try to pin them down. Jane and I--no, not Jane. Fox. I'd been having an erotic dream about the Brat? Oh, well, there's a first time for everything, I suppose.

I burrowed a little deeper into my pillow and closed my eyes.

Sandalwood and myrrh. My groin throbbed, a warm, delicious feeling. It's funny how evocative scents are. In my dream Fox had smelt of--wait a minute. I sat bolt upright, the night air cold on my bare shoulders. In my dream Fox had gone a little crazy and I had stopped him from leaving because I was afraid he was going to kill someone--we were at the door, I had hold of him, and he'd kissed me. My groin pulsed again. Then what?

Nothing. No more dream. Only the impression of sensuality, of eroticism, almost abstract but blindingly intense. Try as I might, I couldn't remember any more. But then, I couldn't recall coming to bed, either. I rubbed my hands over my face, yawning, and froze in mid-yawn. Sandalwood and myrrh. From his hair. On my hands.

What the bloody hell was going on here? My mind stopped playing tricks on me and I inspected the memory with what I tried to keep as a clinical detachment, but failed. It ended with that whispered 'I'm sorry'. I'd blacked out for some reason--not because I didn't want to remember, blast it, I don't need a Freudian brain-descrambler--I could remember that slow, pleasurable fall into the dark, and Fox had somehow got me up to my own bed. I must have scared the poor Brat half to death.

By this time the hard-on I'd developed had wilted like last month's celery. Had he gone to work or gone for a doctor? Was my heart playing tricks on me? What causes blackouts? Blood-pressure, brain-tumour, epilepsy--no, I am not a hypochondriac, but can you blame me for worrying? I was also very thirsty, and there was fruit juice in the fridge.

Feeling somewhat weak about the knees, I pulled on my dressing-gown and tottered along the landing to check the spare room. Fox's bed lay neatly made and unoccupied. I went carefully down the stairs, wondering if my old ticker was going to give out on me again, and opened the door into the living room.

The fire was blazing cheerfully in the hearth, the only light in the room. It glowed on Fox's hair and skin, and threw strange highlights on the black leather trousers which were all he was wearing. He lay in a lazy sprawl on the hearth-rug, belly down, chin propped on his hands, reading an old book.

So much for work or the doctor. I felt disgruntled, to say the least. I coughed loudly, and had the pleasure of startling him. He got to his feet with that characteristic grace and stared at me without speaking. There was an arrogant tilt to his chin and it sparked anger in me until I recognised the guilt beneath. Then I realised the hungry tension that had made him so dangerous last night was no longer there; he was wary, yes, but that was all.

Interesting. Fox hadn't struck me as being the type to suffer from sexual repression on that scale - but then he hadn't struck me as being gay, either. Well, not in the mould of Dandy Jack, anyhow. But we all know what goes on at these public schools, don't we?

"The bike wouldn't start," he said abruptly. I gaped at him. That was the last thing I'd've expected him to say.

"What?" I demanded.

"So I told them I wouldn't be at work tonight."

"Oh. I see." Yes, I did. He thought I wouldn't remember last night, or if I did, that I'd want to forget it happened. There was a table beside me so I perched a hip on it, as much for support as an air of nonchalance. "Care to fill me in on what I missed, Brat?"

He eyed me with increased wariness. "Missed?" he echoed.

"The last thing I can remember is passion on the doormat, and as I have never yet passed out after only a few glasses of brandy, I'd like to know what happened. Or at least carry on where we left off," I added.

To my dying day I will swear that he blushed. I couldn't be absolutely sure, of course, and it might have been the firelight on his skin, but--

Abruptly he was angry. "God-cursed dowser!" he yelled and pounced on me, getting a double handful of dressing-gown and shaking me. "Why couldn't you stay where you were? You should be asleep--"

"Divvie, if you don't mind," I corrected him. "Did you call the doctor?"

"The--? No." Then anger went as quickly as it had come and his voice was quivering slightly; with laughter, I realised with irritation. Talk about mood swings. "Are you thirsty? I'll get you something to drink."

It seemed the most natural thing in the world to slide my arms around his waist. "In a minute," I said. There was an initial hesitation, then he sighed and leaned against me, his arms about my shoulders. "Listen," I said into his hair, "you don't have to do anything you don't want to." I know it sounded lame and hackneyed, but I had to say something reassuring, didn't I? "I'm not gay, either."

"I know," he murmured. He was on the edge of laughter again, damn him. Where was the joke, for God's sake? "Don't worry about me, Lovejoy. I'm a predator, I can survive anything. How about you?"

Now that was a challenge if ever I heard one. "Then we're a good pair."

"That's settled then," he said. "I'll get you that drink." But he didn't seem in any hurry to go, and I was in no hurry to release him. It was a strange and rather intoxicating feeling, all the dangerous swift power of him quiescent in my arms, and it was something I've never experienced before. I moved my hands slowly up and down his back, relishing the contour of muscle-over-bone, the sheer maleness of him. That, too, was a novelty. I have never before found a man sexually attractive, without the seductiveness of a valuable antique as the ultimate prize, but Fox was unique in more ways than one. "Stop thinking," he whispered, mouth on my throat just below my ear. "You'll get a headache."

Why me, I wondered suddenly. Was he using me as I had used other men, as a means to an end?

"No," he said, "my word on it. I didn't expect this to happen." He leaned back against my arms, studying my face with an unnerving Intensity. "A bonus?" he asked with the wry smile that had caught me right from the start.

"I'd say so," I agreed.

"There is an old proverb," he went on as if I hadn't spoken. "Perhaps you know it? 'Take what you want, says God, take it and pay.'"

"I've heard it."

"I live it," he said, "and I have done for a very long time. I'll do my best to make sure you don't pay as well. Do you still think we're a good pair?"

"Tailor-made," I assured him. "As long as my heart can stand it." My pulse was picking up its beat and spreading warmth through my body to centre on my crotch.

"Good. This is as serious as I intend to get on the matter. I'll fetch that drink and you can make yourself comfortable in front of the fire. I'm not making love with you on a table."

"It's I8th century," I told him sternly.

"Well, I'm not, and I'm old-fashioned about some things." That struck me as funny. There he was, nearly half my age, seducing me out of any sanity I had left, and primly declaring he was old-fashioned. I started giggling. Couldn't help it.

I was still snickering quietly to myself when the Brat came back with the carton of orange-juice and a glass and settled himself on the sofa beside me. He poured out a glassful and gave it to me, I drained that and he poured another without speaking. His features were pensive, almost sad. "Penny for them," I prompted, my thirst temporarily assuaged, and sprawled back on the cushions, my feet stretched out to the hearth. He gave a shrug and a slight smile.

"You're an unusual man, Lovejoy," he said quietly. "I don't think I've met anyone quite like you."

"They broke the mould," I said with an expansive gesture that ended up with my arm across his shoulders. He leaned against me, relaxed and warm from the fire, apparently happy to be where he was. Curiosity as well as desire was alive and well and gnawing at my vitals and I couldn't resist it. So, at the risk of destroying the mood, "what was wrong with you last night?" I asked quietly, tightening my hold on him a little. Tension rippled through him, then ebbed away. He didn't answer. Didn't intend to answer. I switched to another track. "Forget that, then. Tell me about yourself, hmm?"

He turned in my embrace so that he was half-lying across my lap and rather sharp elbows dug into my ribs as he propped his chin on his hands and stared at me from a distance of about two inches. There was a laughing devil lurking behind the sunny green of his eyes. "You're a persistent bastard," he observed. "I've already told you about myself."

"Nope," I said. "You told me about the scar and which county you come from along with some family history, and that's it."

"Oh. I thought there was more."

"I'm sure there is, but you haven't said anything about it."

"All right, what do you want to know?" he smiled. His gaze was drifting slowly over my face, as if charting every millimetre of it, as tangible as a caress. There was a sensuality about him; I could breathe it in like the sandalwood and myrrh of his hair. He removed his elbows and shifted so that he was half-lying along my side and slid his hand inside my dressing-gown. I forgot what I was going to say, while at the same time knowing I was being deliberately distracted.

"Everything," I murmured.

"That could take quite a time." Fox chuckled. "But you're the boss. I was born at the Grange," he dropped his head to my shoulder. "My father's name was John, my mother's Elizabeth...." His breath was warm and moist on my throat, I could feel the movement of his lips as he spoke and his fingers were moving through the hair on my chest, tracing patterns of sensation that added to the distraction. "My brother Harry was born a year later and Mary two years after that." He had worked down to the belt of the dressing-gown and he untied it, pushed the fabric aside. By this time I was as horny as a goat, my erection throbbing against my belly and I didn't give a damn about his bloody family-tree.

He gave a purr of appreciation and I almost yelped as his hand cupped my testicles. He leaned over me, hair falling forward to drift silk over my chest and his mouth closed hot over my nipple. I did yelp then, hips pushing up against the pressure of his fingers, while his mouth worked on me, suckling--I could feel the hardness of his teeth, the flick of his tongue--and the sudden coldness of the air on my wet skin when he lifted his head. I made some kind of inarticulate protest but I needn't have worried. He gave the other nipple the same gentle-rough treatment, moved slowly down my body to my navel, tongue dipping.

I was scrabbling at the waistband of his trousers, and eventually he got the message and shifted his hips enough for me to get to the press-stud and the zip. I could feel his erection through the thickness of the leather and it was fortunate for him I had enough common-sense to be careful how I undid the zip. He wasn't wearing any underpants. His urgent flesh seemed to spring into my waiting hand and any doubts I might have had about him really wanting this or just humouring-distracting me went out of the window.

"Get those bloody things off," I managed, breathless, "I want you naked." He got to his feet and pushed the black trousers down over his hips, kicked them off. There was a fine line of coppery hair that started just below his navel and widened on the way down to his groin. His penis was hard, blue-veined and topped with smooth coral that glistened with moisture. It tempted me to something I had never done before, at least not to a man, despite the lure of antiques. I took hold of those narrow hips and drew him between my knees, leaned forward and touched lips and tongue to the slick head. He tasted salt and creamy-rich. He caught his breath in a moan, his hands braced on my shoulders, fingers digging into muscle. I looked up. His head was thrown back, eyes closed, so I did it again, opening my mouth and drawing him in, the honey-musk scent of him filling my mind like the aroma of the finest wine. I wanted to drink him, all of him, and instinct told me it wouldn't take long to lift him to orgasm.

If he thrust his hips he'd choke me, but he didn't. Somehow he kept enough self-control to let me do all the work, though the muscles of his thighs and buttocks were tensed with the effort. Then he gave a shuddering gasp and hot fluid spurted in my mouth; I sucked and swallowed, sucked again, relishing the convulsions that racked through his body until his penis softened against my tongue and I raised my head. His legs gave out on him and he half-fell, half-slumped into my waiting arms. But his mouth was avid, fastening on mine like a leech, tongue demanding entry, sharing the taste of his semen. My own need was surging through me in waves; I wasn't so far away from the point of no return myself. Fox slid down my body, the glide of skin on sweat-slick skin a caress in itself, and knelt on the floor between my spread thighs.

He knew what I wanted and he gave it to me. His lips trailed small almost-bites down my belly, the sweep of his mane on sensitised skin a separate lover's touch in its own right. Then he ran his tongue up the shaft of my penis to the head and took it into his mouth, oh so delicately letting me feel his teeth before he began to suck, tongue working on me with consummate skill.

The pleasure was sharp as blades and soul-deep, sweeping me on to a peak I have rarely attained. I revelled in it, didn't want it to end, losing all track of time and place. There was only this incredible incubus and the scorching gift he was giving; it peaked like an earthquake and it was as if the very essence of my life was being tapped. Those familiar wings of fire came beating out of pulsing darkness to fold around me, but this time I didn't pass out. Instead I was floating safe and warm as my heart gradually slowed down to its normal beat, aware of Fox sprawled across me, heavy and sated in my arms, his head on my shoulder now.

"I've got an idea," I said into his hair. "Why don't we go to bed?" So we did.

###

Round about dawn the Brat sloped off to his bed in the spare room. I was surprised he had the strength to stand, and said so; the randy sod should have been a shrivelled prune. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. But he only laughed and kissed me, and said I was pretty good for a man of my age, and had the energy to dodge the swipe I aimed at him.

I dozed for a while, feeling very good about life in general and myself in particular in spite of, or maybe because of, the various tender parts of my anatomy. But gradually darker thoughts began to creep in. Like Mark Wendlow, Rupert Baverstock to a lesser extent, and what we were going to do about the portraits.

Plan A.1 was largely cobbled together in my head, and while it had a cast of thousands--well, four or five--bits of it were still nebulous. The important bits, like how I was going to get the portrait away from Wendlow without repercussions.

The best way to resolve it would be an accident. Or rather for Wendlow to believe an accident had happened and the picture had been destroyed. Yes, that would do it, and if I could swing it so that it looked as if One and/or Two were to blame then all the better. That way no one else need be involved, not Fox, nor his pet burglar, nor any of the antiques he was so careless about.

Scrap Plan A.1 and bring on A.2.; Lovejoy vs. Tweedledum & Tweedledee. All I had to do was get my paws on the thing, and it suddenly occurred to me that there was a reasonable chance I could actually do that. In fact, I should have thought of it before. Can't think why it had taken so long to dawn on me.

All I needed now was a way to slant the blame.

###

It was gone ten o'clock by the time I finally crawled out of the wreck of the bed and lurched into the bathroom. I felt about a hundred years old and as if the marrow had been drawn out of my bones. I've had some orgies in my time, but that night took a lot of beating and if Fox had any inhibitions, I hadn't noticed them. From the shaving mirror, my face smirked back at me, heavy-eyed and complacent. There were marks on my throat and the line of my collarbone--love-bites. I could vaguely remember giving him one or two similar ones....

But the Brat was still an enigma that I was no nearer solving. Then again, did I really want to solve it? All this trying to find out what makes a person tick, isn't that a bit like making a commitment of some kind? Not only had I known him for just a few days, but he was entirely the wrong shape for a long-term relationship, Jane Felsham being the role model in that department. Somehow I couldn't see Fox being very domesticated and I am very fond of my creature-comforts. On the other hand, he was one of those people I've known for ever - you must know how it is; you meet a total stranger and it's like meeting an old friend you haven't seen for a while. Furthermore, sex with him had been fantastic. I could feel a headache coming on so I gave up trying to puzzle it out and concentrated on shaving without cutting myself.

###

Some time later I poked my head round his door. He was a motionless shape in the dimness. I couldn't even hear his breathing, let alone a snore from him. I shut the door quietly and staggered down to the kitchen.

It took a large pot of tea and a plate of eggs and bacon to begin to restore me to something approaching my usual rude health, and I was warbling cheerfully to myself as I put the finishing touches to Dandy's screen.

Most of the time, though, I kept an ear cocked for the phone or the doorbell. Tinker should be reporting back pretty soon.

###

He reported back all right. Janie delivered him on the doorstep midmorning. She'd come across him in town and he'd promptly cadged a lift out to the cottage. He was fairly well oiled into the bargain, but that was, after all, his natural state, so he retained enough discretion not to babble on about Wendlow in front of her, just in case she wasn't in on it already.

Lady Jane, though, had no such compunction. "I've been making a few discreet enquiries," she announced cheerfully. "About Mark Wendlow. By the way, where's Fox today?"

"In bed," I told her. "Asleep. He works nights."

"What a pity," she cooed. "I was looking forward to meeting him again. An interesting young man."

"I don't know about that," I shrugged. "Bikers are ten a penny these days and they don't often have too many brain cells to rub together. Did I ever tell you about Mavis?"

"Frequently, dear. But from what you've said about him he is not at all decorative. Fox, on the other hand, is remarkably good-looking."

"Handsome is," I said sternly, "as handsome does."

"Absolutely," she agreed, nodding vigorously. "I couldn't agree more. Could you, Tinker?" And all the time she was staring at me, those beautiful gimlet eyes fastened on a point just below the angle of my jaw. I could feel my colour rising. "I trust the carnivorous female of your acquaintance is also handsome?" she added sweetly.

"Erm, Wendlow," I said quickly. "Did you find anything?"

"Make me a pot of Earl Grey and I'll forgive you." She smiled. "I didn't learn a lot, I'm afraid, and that was mostly negative. He isn't that interested in antiques, according to Alexander. He's a widower, hasn't got much of a social life, does a fair bit of yachting, belongs to the local Hunt. As far as work is concerned, he's got a reputation in the City for closing deals even when the odds are against him. He's ruthless, unscrupulous and successful. Alexander doesn't like him," she finished.

There wasn't a lot I could say to that. "What about you?" I asked Tink.

There are times when his voice resembles traditional Christmas pudding; rich, fruity and soaked in alcohol. He nodded like a tweed-encased Buddha. "They don't think much of him in Stambourne, either," he announced. "House was in his wife's family, but they took it on when they married. He's on his own, no live-in servants. The cook comes in five days a week, the housekeeper two. No entertaining, no guests."

"What about his horses?" Janie said, frowning.

"Cook's daughter looks after them. They live in the Lodge, about half a mile from the house and stables. Cook's husband does the gardens," he added as an afterthought. I wondered where One and Two fitted into the menagerie. "It's a nice little place; a I6th century manor house for an east wing, and the rest of it is I8th," Tinker went on. "But that's all I could see from the Lodge. He's got some bloody great dogs to discourage the casual caller, including barkers on the knocker."

"You were careful, I hope?" I said sternly.

"Very, old chap. Bad man, you said, so I was a freelance journalist writing articles on country houses." Good old Tink. Sometimes his brain really works.

"About the dogs," I said.

"Four of 'em, according to Mrs. Johnson. Bloody big brutes. Teeth like a shark's. Rot-things."

"Oh." Which took burglary off my list of options.

"Lovejoy," Janie cut in, bristling curiosity as a cat bristles whiskers, "what's he done to you?"

"Nothing," I said blandly. "Just thought he might be a useful chap to know. But if he isn't into antiques, I'll be wasting my time, won't I? What did Alexander bring you back?"

That distracted her, if only temporarily. Her face lit up and she scrabbled around in her handbag, coming up with a dark green velvet jewel box. The domed lid opened on a stiffish catch and she held it out to me. "What do you think?" she asked almost shyly.

Nine filthy great rubies in a setting of gold leaves and buds, a necklace of opulence that would have set Lord A back a very tidy penny. "It's beautiful," I said reverently. Well, it was, and would look fantastic on her. "Mid I700's, French, and I hope you're going to wear it rather than lock it away in a bank vault."

"Oh, yes," she smiled. "Things like this need to be worn. Now, about Mark Wendlow." This woman is nothing if not persistent.

"Look," I said, "forget about him. It was just a long shot."

"Lovejoy," she snapped. "I wasn't born yesterday and I know you. You're getting back at him for something, aren't you?" The next thing would be 'Can I help?' "I want to lend a hand." Almost right.

"Crossing him," Tinker volunteered unnecessarily. "Wendlow is, I mean."

"I could always invite him to dinner," Jane suggested. "That would give you a chance at the house."

"Not with Rot-things roaming the front lawn," I said. Splendid dogs, Rottweilers. I have a lot of respect for their jaws. "Don't bother for now. Give me a chance to think some more about it and work things out." I already had; sit tight and wait.

That wasn't good enough for her Ladyship. She wanted chapter and verse on Wendlow and the grudge I had against him. She didn't know about Baverstock, so what could I say? Right. Nothing, and fobbing her off is far from easy. She should be an antiques dealer, not an interior designer. Still, I'd sooner she was giving me a taste of the Spanish Inquisition on the subject of Mark Wendlow than on the Brat.

###

For the first time since I've known her, I was glad to see Janie leave, and take Tinker with her. I had a lot to think about, one way or another, and she was a distraction I couldn't afford. Apart from Fox, there was Tweedledum and Tweedledee. It would, I had worked out, take a couple of days for further developments in that quarter.

I made a fresh pot of Earl Grey and dug out an unopened packet of Rich Tea. While the other major distraction in my life was sleeping away upstairs, I could put together a few contingency plans.

But life is never that easy.

"Mr Lovejoy," said the voice and I Jumped like a startled deer. One stood Just inside the kitchen door, Two behind him like a shadow. Men that size have no business moving so quietly. I hadn't heard a thing. "Our client has a commission for you."

"Sorry," I said. "I'm up to my eyes at the moment and I'm due at this auction in half-an-hour. Call back next week."

"Another two thousand," he went on as if I hadn't said a word, "for you to complete the cleaning work you've already begun."

The movement my heart made in my chest was rather like that of a trout on a riverbank. I'd been counting on this. "Oh, well, I'll try to fit it in. Leave it on the table, boys, and pop in next Tuesday."

"Our client," said Two, "requests that you take up his offer of hospitality until the work is completed. You may bring with you any specialist equipment you need, anything else that is required will be provided."

That had not been part of my calculations. "Come on, lads," I protested, "be reasonable. I have a business to run. I can't just shut up shop for however long it takes, I'll lose custom."

"Our client," One intoned, "offers two hundred pounds a day over and above the agreed fee."

"Three hundred," I put in automatically.

"It is not negotiable," he said, inscrutable as Stonehenge. Fair enough, it was worth a try.

In the meantime my brain was working in top gear. There was added risk, of course, being on the inside, but in cases like this it's best to trust the one person you really know. Yourself.

"Okay," I said. "There's stuff I'll need in the workshop, I'll have to pack some clothes and give the lodger some do's and don'ts." They nodded.

"We are instructed to tell you that your discretion must be absolute," Two said.

"And," One continued, "that there is the strong possibility of other such commissions in the future should your work be of the required standard. If it is not or if your discretion is not watertight, there will, of course, be serious repercussions."

"He can rely on me," I said with a casualness I was far from feeling. That was the closest so far to an outright threat and it had the chilling inevitability of Holy Writ. "By the way, it's just Lovejoy. No Mister."

I packed all I'd need for the portrait Into a hold-all and dumped it in One's arms with a smile. "Won't be a sec," I said, and headed for the stairs without any undue haste. As soon as the door shut behind me I went up them three at a time and dived into the spare room, switching on the light.

The Brat might as well be unconscious for all the response I got when I poked him. "Wake up!" I hissed, "Fox, for God's sake!" I grabbed his naked shoulder and shook him, hard. His head lolled, hair spread bright on the cushion. But his eyelids didn't even flicker. "Fox!" His flesh was cold under my hand; how anyone so alive can look so dead when he's asleep I don't know. He was more than ever like something carved from marble.

"Any trouble, Mr Lovejoy?" said One from the door behind me. I stood up.

"Nope," I said disgustedly, "Just the usual. He works a night-shift in the town and sleeps like a log in the day. Even if he did wake up I doubt If he'd remember half of what I tell him. It'll have to be a note, I'm afraid."

"No problem, Mr Lovejoy. As long as you're discreet."

"My middle name," I assured him. "Just forget the Mister, will you, and we'll get along just fine," and I went Into my bedroom to throw a few things into another hold-all.

Downstairs again, I wrote a quick note. 'Antiques call and I'm off for a few days. Never mind the night-job, stay here and look after the shop. Don't give Dandy Jack his fire screen until the day after tomorrow when the glue's hardened off and not until you've seen the colour of his money, cancel my appointment for this evening, don't let Tink get his paws on my alcohol and don't sell anything for less than the code on the ticket or I'll break your neck.' I couldn't be clearer than that, could I? One and Two gave it the seal of their approval and I signed it with a flourish.

I left the note propped up against the kettle and was escorted out to a large black Rover. It had, I noticed, those posh smoked glass effect one-way windows. My tatty luggage was placed in the boot, I was placed in the back seat like Royalty, and we drove off.

Just outside Lavenham they pulled into a convenient lay-by and Two joined me in the back.

"Just a small precaution, Mr Lovejoy," he said. "Our client requests you humour his whim and put this on until we arrive." 'This' was a black hood.

"A little melodramatic," I snorted, but pulled it over my head. I wasn't going to argue, especially as I knew where we were going, or hoped I did.

The hood stayed on for some time. We must have been driving round in circles for the most part, and while I know your sense of time is up the creek when you're in potentially hostile company with a blindfold on, it doesn't take that long to get from Felsham to Stambourne.

When we did stop I was kept hooded, was led across gravel that crunched under my feet, up some stone steps into what felt like a large hallway and some forty paces later, I was taken down a flight of narrow stairs and along a passage.

"Thank you, gentlemen," said a cool, suave voice. "You may remove the hood, Lovejoy, and thank you for co-operating."

Wendlow was taller than me by four or five inches, ramrod of spine and with the shoulders of a bullock. He had dark hair sleeked back and one of those raw-boned faces with weather-beaten skin, and granite eyes that were narrowed as if he was squinting into a strong wind all the time. The Old School Tie and Yachting Club type. And yes, I could see that he would be a bad man to cross.

The room was pretty interesting as well. Used to be a wine cellar by the look of it. Now it was all set up to be a restorer's dream. My hold-alls sat on the workbench, shapeless and out of place. Beside them lay the portrait.

"Any difficulties, gentlemen?" Wendlow queried.

"None, sir," One answered. "He left a note for his lodger. All above board, sir, no hints."

"Excellent. That'll be all for now. Sit down, Lovejoy." They left and I sat at the bench. "No names, of course. My staff will see that your stay here is comfortable. Do you have all you need to continue with the portrait?"

"Yes," I said. "For now."

"Good. Perhaps you'd care to make yourself at home before you start. Lunch will be in half-an-hour. By the way, this door will be locked and you will not leave this area unescorted. All facilities you will need are here, from the kitchenette to the toilet. Ring that bell and my staff will come. Good day, Lovejoy."

"Good day, squire," I drawled, and didn't move until I was on my own.

As workshops go it was almost perfect. All it needed was natural light instead of those fancy fluorescent tubes that are supposed to be the same as daylight but aren't. The fridge and the cupboards in the little kitchen were stocked up as if against a siege, all of it from Fortnum & Mason.

When I'd finished poking around I sat in the filtered glow and thought about Wendlow. I was going to have to play this very, very carefully.

###

Shortly afterwards One came for me and I was blindfolded again, escorted up the stairs and along corridors until I was led into a room and the hood removed. Oak-panelling, simple linenfold, beautifully done and clean-cut as if it was carved yesterday. It was I6th Century. So was the table, set for two and with Wendlow sitting in solitary state at the head. The chairs were later, though they're the only things that were. There was a beautiful court cupboard, a carved stone mantelshelf ditto, and a couple of exquisite Holbeins on the walls.

"Sit down, Lovejoy," Wendlow said. "Are you satisfied with the workshop?"

"It'll do," I said casually. Two was the designated butler, it seemed, dishing out game soup from a silver tureen. He might as well have been invisible for all the notice Wendlow took of him. I did my best to do the same.

"Good," he said. "How long will it take you to complete the work?"

"Not too long. Some of the initial stages have already been done, it's the delicate stuff now, actually lifting off the dirt without disturbing the paint." He nodded, but I could tell he wasn't really interested in the technicalities, just the finished result.

"Do you anticipate any problems?"

"No," I said. "I didn't have any with Ann--" and could have bitten my tongue.

"Ah. yes. Ann Darcy. I really must add her to my collection, Lovejoy."

"I don't think Baverstock is selling," I said. Two removed the soup-bowl and put a plate of Steak Diane in front of me, afterwards topping up my glass with the claret.

"Oh, I think he would if he thought she wasn't genuine," Wendlow said, smiling like a shark.

"No, he wouldn't. He'd have her tested, and dendrochronology will give the age of the panel."

"True, but you are what is termed a divvie, I believe, and he trusts you. I'm sure that if you were to tell him she was a very clever fake, he'd take your word for it." Now, I've done a lot of things in my time, some of which I'm not particularly proud of, but I have never ever told an outright lie where my divvying is concerned. "I'll make it worth your while, of course," he was saying. "My supplier brought me other items from the same source, things that do not interest me. I'm certain they'd appeal to you; some perfect Fabergé and a pair of really lovely Limoges candlesticks. Worth quite a lot at auction, I'd say."

"I'm sure," I said steadily. "As long as the original owner didn't turn up for the bidding."

Wendlow did not pretend any innocence. "Oh, he won't. I have it on the best authority he's a frail old man in his eighties who never goes further than the village."

Fox's grandfather? Yet somehow I'd got the impression he lived alone. "And if he's reported his--erm--loss to the police?"

"He hasn't. I have friends in high places, to coin a well-worn phrase. Mr Courtney hasn't reported a thing."

No. He just set his godless grandson on the trail. "Poor old bugger," I muttered. "I bet he didn't even have any security alarms."

"Correct." He took an envelope out of his pocket, handed it to the hovering Two to pass on to me. I opened it up and found photographs.

A jewel of a house, mid I7th Century mixed with Tudor brick, partially surrounded by trees. Interior shots of rooms and their contents, a haphazard of treasures, most of which seemed to be in daily use rather than on display. One showed the portraits, just as Fox had said, hanging in their alcoves on either side of a lovely Adam fireplace. There were more exterior shots, showing rain-swept outbuildings. One also showed the figure of an old man in a soaking wet mac. He was thin, slightly bent of spine, and a gnarled, fine-boned hand clutched the carved handle of a walking stick. The gaunt face under the dripping hat-brim had Fox's profile.

"He's a widower. There's a grandson somewhere, but he's rarely there. My supplier will be paying a return visit before long."

I sorted through the photos and found the close-ups of some silver bowls and goblets, the chevron and fleur de lys engraved on their surfaces. "For these?" I asked, showing then to him.

"Yes, among others." He eyed me narrowly. "Why did you choose those, Lovejoy?"

"They'd fit in here," I said with a shrug, "on the cupboard." Somehow I had to warn Fox his granddad was for it again. It looked as if his burglar wasn't as cowed as he'd thought he was.

"That's very acute of you," Wendlow sailed. "I specialise, Lovejoy, and I don't like it when others encroach on my preserves. I'm sure you can convince Baverstock to get rid of Ann's portrait. I have every faith in you."

I took a deep breath. "No," I said. "I'm sorry. I can't."

"I beg your pardon?" As if I'd committed a social solecism.

"I've already told him she's a genuine Elizabethan." Which was the truth, after all.

"Then tell him you were mistaken."

I stared at him, shocked. "I never make mistakes with the divvie," I snapped. "I don't lie about it, either. Why don't you simply make him an offer and buy the bloody thing?"

His mouth thinned to a cold angry line, and I could feel Two looming behind me. So much for playing it carefully. "I don't operate that way, Lovejoy," Wendlow said softly. "Only certain of my staff, my supplier and now you know that I collect. I can't have every Tom, Dick and Harry knowing my business. But I'm a reasonable man. Everyone has their price. When I've found yours, I'll ask you again."

"I'll do what I can to co-operate." I said grimly, "as long as it doesn't compromise my divvying. That's fair, isn't it?"

"No, Lovejoy. Finish your meal. We'll talk again later." He dabbed a napkin to his mouth and walked out.

Believe it or not, I did carry on eating, though it was ashes in my mouth. I was scared shitless, of course, but they didn't have to know it, did they?

###

Back in the cellar-workshop, I was left to stew in my own juice. No one came to check my progress on Adam, or even that I had started work on him at all. Which was as well; I didn't touch him.

I sat there and drank a lot of coffee in the hope the caffeine would stimulate my brain into producing some master strategy. But all it did was send me trotting back and forth to the loo. In between trips I sorted through the tools and kitchen equipment, pocketing anything that looked like it might be useful. Like the Stanley knife.

At seven-thirty One came in and placed something on the workbench and walked out again without saying a word. It was a motorcycle helmet. Black. The visor was splintered and there were deep scores on one side. I stared at it numbly for a long time before I picked it up and examined it. There was no sign of blood, thank God, but he must have come off The Big Bugger at a hell of a speed to mark the thing like that.

At nine-thirty Wendlow strolled in, smoking a Havana. "Good evening, Lovejoy," he said genially. "Are you going to co-operate?" Clutching the helmet to me I shook my head. He smiled. "That is unfortunate. And by the look of it, you aren't keeping to your side of the contract as far as this portrait is concerned. That is not clever of you, Lovejoy."

"Where's Fox?" I demanded.

"Here, relatively undamaged, though I believe his motorcycle is a write-off. He'll be with you shortly. I suggest that when he regains consciousness you talk things over between the two of you. The consequences could be quite serious, you know."

I didn't answer, and after a brief pause he left. Within five minutes the door opened again and Two walked in, the Brat's body slung over his shoulder in a fireman's lift. There was a large bruised lump on his forehead and the leathers were scuffed on right shoulder, hip and thigh. With impersonal care, Two stretched him out on the floor in the recovery position.

"As far as I can ascertain, Mr Lovejoy, he is merely concussed and should be coming round before long with a severe headache. If you are concerned about his condition, ring the bell and we will come to your assistance."

I gawped at him, unable to believe what I was hearing. "In a pig's ear," I sneered and turned my back on him, kneeling by Fox's side.

He was already beginning to stir. His head rolled a couple of times and his breath hissed through clenched teeth. Then his eyes opened, glittering with anger and with no sign of fuzziness that I could see. He pushed himself into a sitting position, leaning against the bench-leg. I expected a curse or two but he said nothing. His face was a blank mask; only his eyes gave the game away. Fenris was back in business.

"What happened?" I asked. His gaze flicked over me, checking me for damage, I think.

"They put me off the road," he said evenly. "On the straight they wouldn't have got close, but--" He broke off with a one-sided shrug. He didn't need to say any more. Nippy as The Big Bugger was, on those unfamiliar, twisting back-roads the odds were with the opposition. "She went into the river," he added abruptly. "I bounced off a tree."

"After scraping a furrow in the asphalt, by the look of it. Are you hurt?"

"No. Just bruised. I was lucky."

Lucky! "So where were you going? Didn't you find my note?"

"Yes. I guessed what had happened and I was going to pay Baverstock a visit. See if he could be useful against Wendlow."

"Should have done as you were told," I snapped.

"Why break the habit of a lifetime?" he drawled with far too much sangfroid given the situation. "What does he want you to do?" I explained briefly and a frown settled on his face. He got to his feet with less than his usual grace and leaned on the bench, not giving the damned portrait a glance. "Are you going to do it?" he asked.

A fair question. "No!" I barked. "At least, I don't think so."

"The heart spoke first," he said, a laughing affection in his eyes that completely banished the wolf. "I'll go along with that."

But things were no longer quite so simple. "Wendlow could have the edge on me," I said quietly. I would have said more, but his gaze suddenly fastened on the door. Seconds later it opened on One and Two, both of them holding revolvers; the snub-nosed variety with what looked like the bore of a cannon.

"Our client," said One, "wishes to know if you have changed your mind, Mr Lovejoy."

"No," Fox said. "He hasn't."

"Unfortunate," Two observed. "Empty your pockets, Mr Lovejoy." I did not move until One stuck the barrel of his gun against the back of the Brat's skull.

###

They let me keep my handkerchief, but that was all. Fox was given the same instruction with me on the business-end of the gun, and then we were marched out of the workshop.

No blindfolds this time, which was a bad sign in my book.

We were taken up several floors by the back-stairs, along corridors and up more stairs until we were on the top floor. This was servants' quarters in the good old days; small cramped boxes for those lucky enough to live in.

The room was small and bare of everything except the un-shaded light bulb and the cobwebs, and the narrow window sported a couple of vertical iron bars. With One and Two crowding on our heels, it was almost claustrophobic.

"Shoes and socks," Two said crisply. I wasn't inclined to argue with the gun in his hand, so I did as I was told. Fox shrugged and took off his boots and socks. Two scooped the footwear out of the door with the side of his Doc Martin as if we'd been wading in cowpats. "Jackets, sweaters and shirts," he said.

"We'll freeze!" I protested.

"I doubt it," One said ironically. "However, the cold might aid your decision, Mr Lovejoy. I suggest you obey. If we have to do it for you, you'll be stripped to the skin." Put like that, I didn't have much choice. I took them off and dropped them on the floor. Fox's jacket and t-shirt landed on top and they all went the same way as our other things. He ran expert hands over my jeans, not that there was anything left to find. Fox got the same treatment and though he stood like a statue for it, there was a look in his eyes that promised due retribution as soon as he could arrange it. "Thank you. Our client will see you some time tomorrow, Mr Lovejoy. I suggest you spend the time thinking very carefully about your future actions. And you," fixing that bleak stare on Fox, "would be advised to do your best to convince him to co-operate. Mr Lovejoy's skills make him indispensable. You are not; therefore you will be the one who'll lose your hands, a finger at a time, until Mr Lovejoy sees reason. If he hasn't made the correct decision by the time our client interviews him again."

The door was old-fashioned and therefore solid. It shut with a heavy finality that made me shiver more than the cold, and the key turned in the lock. Two pairs of feet walked away. At least they had left the light on. The handle had been removed on this side of-the door and a metal plate fastened over the lock. There was simply no way we could get the thing open from inside the room.

Fox hadn't wasted his time with the door. He was examining the bars.

"That's no use," I said. "Our best bet is to jump them when they come for us next. Or bring us something to eat," I added hopefully.

"The cement is old," he said. "Look, I can turn this one in its socket. If I can get it out--"

"Don't be bloody daft! We're four storeys up, for God's sake!"

"The ivy's grown up to the floor below and it looks strong enough to take--"

"Will you listen to me!" I barked. "I don't care if it's tapping on the bloody window, we can't get to it. The casement's too narrow."

"Not for me it isn't. I can climb down and get back up here to let you out."

I hesitated, looking from his muscle-and-whipcord body to the window and back again. Yes, he might make it, but--"No," I said. "It must be nearly twenty feet from here to the ivy. You can't do it. If you fall you aren't going to bounce."

"I won't fall. If the cement in the wall out there is anything like this, there'll be plenty of weathering and gaps." All the time he was working at the bloody bar, and there was a drift of fine dust on the boards at his feet. Cracks were beginning to appear in the sill.

"Here," I said, "let me have a go." He moved aside and I took hold of the bar. It was old iron, but solid, and all I could do was rotate it a little in its setting. A bit more powdery dust floated to the floor.

"My turn," he said, almost pushing me out of the way. The muscles moved under his smooth hide, the cracks widened, and with a strangely soft sound a chunk broke away. Fox gave a quiet whoop of triumph. A twist and a wrench and the bar was out of the embrasure and in his hands. I reached part him and forced up the window catch, pushed against the rusted hinges until the window opened. Colder air gusted in, starting me shivering again. Cautiously I craned my head out and looked down.

Ivy was black against the wall, about a hundred miles away.

"You can't," I said. "It's impossible."

"No, it isn't."

"Don't argue! Of course it is! We haven't even got anything to use as ropes, unless you intend to use our trousers!"

"Don't need to." He was maddeningly calm and matter-of-fact. I wanted to strangle him.

"And it's too narrow. You're not so skinny you can squeeze through that gap!"

"With the other bar out of the way I can."

There was no convincing him. Numb with more then cold I watched him work on the second bar until that, too, was broken out from its place. If he went out of the window with a sideways twist and his lungs empty, he would just about make it. Then all he had to do was imitate a spider and crawl down to the ivy.

"What about the dogs?' I was snatching at straws now. "If they're loose--"

"Jerry said he lets them out when he goes to bed."

'All right," I muttered. "Just--be careful."

"I will be," he smiled. The bloody idiot showed no sign of nerves at all. If anything he was enjoying it, I think. "Give me a hand."

I got hold of him and took his weight while he swung his legs up and out of the window. He wriggled forward until his hips were balanced on the sill, one arm hooked around my neck.

"You are insane," I told him with quiet sincerity.

"Yes," he agreed, laughing. Laughing!

"Don't bother about trying to get me out," I said. "Go to Jane and Alexander and tell them, tell Tink and Baverstock as well while you're at it."

He nodded, then tightened his arm and kissed me, tongue probing possessively deep. Christ, what a time and place to pick for it! I was holding him in a convulsive embrace, but somehow he was sliding free, body twisting lithe and strong, and almost before I knew it he was outside, hanging from the window frame by his hands. He grinned up at me and started down.

The night was cut-glass clear and frost was already glinting in the moonlight. Shivering, I leaned out as far as I could and watched the pale form move steadily down the wall. God knows how and where he found handholds. I could see no unevennesses in the stones, but then I wasn't nose-on to them.

Fifteen feet down he reached the comparative security of the ivy and looked up. The bugger smiled at me, waved a casual hand and carried on towards the ground. I felt slightly sick. His fingers had shown black in the colour-leaching light; torn and bloodied from the descent. Another one for the tally against Wendlow.

###

It seemed to take several lifetimes for him to reach the bottom, and I didn't breathe properly until I saw him step away from the wall. He was standing in a flower bed. Ahead of him was a wide stretch of lawn and then a white fence that glimmered in the moonlight. Beyond that was an orchard, the trees skeletal in the night. Frost limned everything. Fox's breath was a brief pale cloud as he glanced around him, then started across the lawn.

In the room behind him, the lights were switched on. The effect was that of stage-lighting, and he was in the middle of its swathe. He leaped aside for the darkness, but a shout went up and French-windows were thrown open. The lights went out again almost immediately, but I could see the shapes of two men running in his wake. The moonlight gleamed off the metal in their hands, but it positively glowed on Fox's bare skin. He might as well have been luminous. Helpless and with agony growing under my ribs I watched him jinking like a hunted hare, but I knew it was only a matter of time. He could outrun them, but he couldn't outrun a bullet.

A gun was fired, the small splash of flame clearly visible, the sound sharp in the night, and the dogs were roused to a frenzied barking not so far away. I could hear them crashing and scrabbling against heavy mesh. Fox ran on, untouched. If he could reach the orchard, he'd have some kind of cover--but he was half-naked and bare-foot.

Twice more they shot at him and missed, and he was almost at the fence. They fired again, in unison this time, and he stumbled. Another shot and Fox was suddenly thrown forward to slam against the barrier. He bounced back from it, leaving a smear on the paintwork, and two more shots rang out. He was spun off his feet by the impact of the bullets, and I could see what looked like black tarry splashes on breast and back.

Even then I half-expected him to get up, start running again. He didn't, of course. One and Two jogged across the grass and stood over him. Two nudged him in the ribs with his toe, One crouched down and put his hand on Fox's throat.

Two came back to the French-windows, putting his gun into its shoulder-holster. Wendlow was there, the smoke of his cigar drifting in the cold air. "He's dead, sir," Two reported over the hysterical yammering of the dogs.

"The price of foolhardiness," Wendlow observed. "Take the body into the orchard and bury it deep. Clean off the fence and do what you can about the blood on the grass. Oh, yes, and bring me the ring he was wearing." He raised his voice a little. "I trust you are watching and listening up there, Lovejoy?" I couldn't answer. My voice wouldn't work at all. He laughed and went back inside.

After a while the dogs shut up.

Bury it deep, he'd said. I leaned against the window frame, not feeling the cold, and watched the two black shapes moving in the orchard, the scene lit by a moon like a spotlight.

They dug deep all right, the regulation six feet I should think, and dropped Fox into the hole with no more ceremony than if he had been the four-footed raider he was named for. Then they started filling it back in, stamping down the earth every now and then. By the time they were replacing the carefully cut turf the moon had been curtained by clouds and I could no longer see them.

All that life, all that crackling energy snuffed out and broken--"Fox," I said into the night, "you pillock." I wanted to howl like a wounded wolf, I wanted to tear down the sky and shatter the moon, I wanted to rip out Wendlow's guts and make him eat them. I wanted Fox to be alive again.

###

By dawn the temperature had risen enough to clear the frost and bring the rain. From my window I could see almost every tree in the orchard, but I couldn't see any sign of his grave. They'd made a good job of it. Nor was there any mark on the fence.

Four large Rottweilers patrolled Fox's last run with stiff-legged suspicion, but they did not go into the orchard, though the fence would be no obstacle.

I didn't turn round when the door opened. A blanket was put around my shoulders and a steaming mug was placed on the window ledge in front of me. The scent of fresh-ground coffee laced with whisky rose to my nostrils, making my stomach churn with incipient nausea.

"Our client," said One, "has every confidence that in the light of recent events you have reconsidered your position, bearing in mind that there are others available for your persuasion. A Tinker Dill, an Eric Catchpole, not to mention the Lady Jane Felsham. And we believe you have a daughter at a rather expensive school. Drink the coffee, Mr Lovejoy."

I drank it. After the first couple of sips it actually settled my stomach and brought some inner warmth to me. I wrapped both hands around the mug and stared at them, memorising every line of their features. If the weight of my regard made them uncomfortable, they did not show it. I was no threat to them, or so they thought.

They were wrong. I was Nemesis. Sooner or later I would work out how justice would be done on all three of them.

###

I was taken down a couple of floors and into a warm bedroom. My hold-all was on the bed, along with my shirt, my jacket and sweater. Fox's things were there, too, except for his ring and the few items of clothing he'd been wearing. I shoved them into the hold-all and zipped it shut. Sandalwood and myrrh drifted faint as a distant dream and was gone. I put the rest of my clothes back on.

"Breakfast is ready for you in the workshop, Mr Lovejoy," Two said. I nodded and went with them.

In some ways I was on automatic pilot. Left alone, I sat down at the bench, ate bacon and eggs without throwing up, drank a hell of a lot of tea. The portrait lay there, waiting for me.

I tidied the dirty crockery into the kitchenette, washed them up and dried them. The portrait was still there. Adam's blank blob of a face seemed to be watching me. So I wandered back to the bench and sat there, staring back at him. But I wasn't seeing him at all.

Fox, lying in the cold earth, body stiffened with rigor mortis and soon to be invaded by worms and decay; the body that had been so incredibly alive in my arms. Grief began to twist in me again, and a hunger for revenge that brought a snarl to my throat. I glared at the bland oval face and hated it. If it hadn't been for that bloody portrait Fox would still be alive--I stopped the Stanley knife millimetres away from the painted surface. I couldn't do it. Wendlow' s living face, yes, but not this centuries old piece of art.

Sickened and shaking, I dropped my head into my hands and squeezed my eyes shut. There was another consideration as well. My own life. Once I'd finished this commission, I doubted if there would be others. I'd seen murder done; I literally knew where the body was buried. Could he afford to let me live? Hardly. Unless I used Ann as a bargaining piece. Fox's Ann. God help me, I couldn't even think coherently.

As I said, I was on automatic pilot. Some time later I discovered I was working on the portrait. I couldn't even remember making the decision, let alone starting work. Before it could clearly register, the door opened and Wendlow came in.

"Good evening, Lovejoy," he said smoothly, keeping the width of the bench between us. "I'm glad you have decided to be sensible. You'll explain this, if you please," holding up his hand. Fox's ring was on his little finger. "This is the same coat of arms as in the picture."

"Yes." I was shocked at the sound of my voice. It was thin and croaky, like an old man's. I coughed to clear my throat.

"How did the boy come by it? Did Jerry White give it to him?"

"By right of birth," I growled. "He's a descendant." Was a descendant. I glanced at the portrait--and ice grew like a knotted fist in my gut.

I hadn't realised how much of it I had cleaned up. Adam's face was no longer an almost featureless blob. His hair was now bright copper, waving back from his forehead and looking as if hands had just been raked through it, and from his left earlobe hung an emerald. Green eyes laughed out at me from a handsome proud-boned face, the smile charmingly awry. And from the edge of his left eye-socket was a ragged scar that ran across his temple to disappear into his hair.

I think Wendlow was saying something, but I couldn't hear him properly. Likenesses I could accept, even an identical-twin-image despite the four hundred odd years between then, but the same scar? That was an impossible coincidence. I couldn't understand it. No, it wasn't really there. I was imagining it. Shock. That was it. I was in shock and hallucinating....

Wendlow barked my name and I looked up at him. He was glaring at me, on the edge of losing his temper, but then I started hallucinating again. I thought I saw the door open and Fox come into the room.

Mud and fresh blood were smeared over his upper body and leather trousers, but not enough to hide the raw wounds in his chest and belly, though they weren't bleeding. There were fresh grazes on his arms, as if he had been clawed; blood was bright about his mouth and nose--lambent Fenris-eyes were locked on Wendlow's back, bloodied lips were drawn back from sharp white teeth, and I forgot to breathe. No ice, now, in this Loki's child; he was all fire and fury and hunger. How in God's name could Wendlow not be aware of the danger that was stalking him--

Probably it was my fixed stare that alerted him. He spun round and froze in his tracks, jaw sagging. Then he was snatching for the gun inside his jacket and Fox was moving with inhuman speed. One minute he was poised on the room's threshold, then he was on Wendlow and the man was falling, brought down by the flying weight.

I was glad that my view was blocked by the bench. Wendlow screamed once, a horrible gurgling sound that bubbled into silence.

After a while Fox stood up. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood. He did not look at me. Would not. His breathing was ragged, shallow, the burning anger gone now and taking with it his vitality. He pushed his fingers through his tangled, dirty hair. The hand was shaking a little. He looked--defeated.

That ice was still in my belly, crawling trails of terror up and down my spine, but I stumbled round the end of the bench, refusing to look down at Wendlow, and I got my arms around him. Briefly his muscles tensed against me, but then he gave a shuddering sigh and sagged in my embrace, hands clutching my jacket lapels while spasmodic shudders racked through him.

"I don't like being buried," he whispered. I couldn't stop myself; I began to laugh. At least I think it was laughter.

And all the time my brain was howling questions that I wasn't sure I wanted answered, because none of it made any kind of sense. There had to be a rational explanation for this unholy craziness, but I retained enough sanity to know this was neither the time nor the place to start trying to find it.

"We've got to get out of here," I said into his hair. It smelt of earth and blood, making me feel slightly sick. He nodded and pushed away from me, staggering a little as he did so. "Have you got a bullet in you?" I demanded. Those raw, seemingly half-healed wounds looked awful.

"No," he said. He crouched beside Wendlow, touched fingertips to the man's temple. I forced myself to look and to my surprise saw very little blood. There was a bruised-looking bite-mark on his throat, already scabbing over, stains on his collar, and that was all.

"He's not dead?" I gasped.

"No," Fox said coldly. "Not yet. I drink living blood, Lovejoy." The momentary lapse of control was obviously over.

"I don't want to know that," I snapped, fighting the uneasy churning in my stomach. "What is the body-count?"

"One, out by the lawn."

"0h. Where's the other one?"

"Unconscious, in the hallway. There's no one else in the house."

"I'm thankful for small mercies--bloody hell, the dogs!" Down here I wouldn't've been able to hear them barking.

He gave a painful shrug. "Outside," he said shortly. "By the lawn."

"--Guarding the corpse. Damn! We've got to hide it!"

"Why?"

"Because, you brainless pillock, if you did to him what you did to Wendlow, it'll be bloody obvious, won't it?"

"No," he said. "Not by now."

It took me a few seconds to register what that meant, and when I did my guts heaved.

"Then let's get out of here!"

"There's no hurry." He stood up and wavered to the bench, leaning on it as if his legs were about to let him down. "We've got some hours yet."

"How do you work that out?"

"No one's likely to find the body before dawn, and we'll be gone by then."

"Why the delay, damn it, and what about him?" nodding towards the unconscious man. 'He'll have a pretty weird story to tell."

"No, he won't. I've got to clean up, and if you give me time enough to get some strength back, I can take care of them." My face must have shown my thoughts, because he gave a croak of laughter that became a coughing fit. It sounded as if his lungs were doing a good job of tearing themselves apart, and he was left gasping for breath, fresh blood on his mouth. "Time." he wheezed, "that's all. They won't remember us. Just the dogs killing--" He began to cough again.

"All right," I said grimly. I'd have to take his word on that. "I know where to find a bedroom, and a bathroom shouldn't be too far away from it. Come on."

###

Even with me supporting him, it was no easy journey for the Brat. I could not see how he'd found the strength to fight his way out of that hole in the orchard, and dispose of the paid muscle into the bargain. Unless it was pure blind fury.

Whatever it was that had fuelled him, he ran out of it at the top of the stairs. I carried him the rest of the way.

Leaving him flat out on the bed I hurried back downstairs. I found Two in the hall and at first I thought he was dead. His throat bore a messier scab than Wendlow's, but closer inspection showed the barrel chest was rising and falling steadily enough. He weighed a lot more than Fox and I had no intention of giving myself a hernia, so I dragged him down to the cellar workshop, not particularly caring how his head banged on the steps. There I tethered him to the radiator, Wendlow to the heavy bench.

I used wire; thin, strong stuff that would hold an elephant, if its struggles didn't cut off its foot first. Like a cheese-wire through the best Double Gloucester. I rather hoped they'd try it.

Then I gathered all my kit together, including the portrait, and went back up to the bedroom.

Fox was still dead to the world, and I took a close look at his injuries. The claw-marks had the pinkness of new skin under the flaking scabs, but the others were a different matter. Three entry holes, three exit holes, the latter torn and ragged as might be expected. Any one of those bullets should have killed him.

All right. Questions and answers later. There was an en suite bathroom, complete with towels, soaps and all the et ceteras. I helped myself to what I needed and began the job of cleaning him up.

It was slow and unpleasant, because fine slivers of shattered bone ware protruding from the mangled flesh and had to be picked out, and I had very little stomach for that kind of thing. He, on the other hand, couldn't have had much stomach--or guts--left whole if the probable trajectories were anything to go by. Even so, heavy scabs were forming as I worked, and the injuries looked a lot less raw. When I finished I tore a sheet into wide strips and swathed them tightly around him from waist to armpits. Couldn't think of what else to do.

But something else did occur to me. This was an ideal opportunity to examine his teeth without losing my hand, and I took it. I don't know what I was expecting, but not being a dentist I couldn't see much that was unusual about them. No fangs, for instance. His canines were perhaps a little more pointed that was usual, but not that much longer than anyone else's. The incisors looked absolutely normal, until I gave them a prod with a fingertip. They were sharp as broken porcelain, and it wouldn't take too much pressure for them to cut through the skin. I swallowed hard, remembering just how close those unnaturally sharp teeth had been to certain vital parts of my anatomy. And left me unmarked. More or less. Automatically my hand went to my throat, but all I had seen there before were love-bites. Nary a scab. So had he or hadn't he...?

'I'm sorry,' he'd said, and then that incandescent pleasure had swamped everything. Including pain. No wonder I'd felt so rubber-kneed when I woke up, he must have had a couple of pints from me, the bastard!

But, said my memory, only because I'd pushed it. I'd made the first move, I'd started the--what?--call it seduction for want of a better word. And he hadn't expected me to remember.

I had a lot to think about, and as it turned out, some time in which to do it.

###

Two hours later his eyes opened, focusing on me with surprise and a wary gratitude in their depths.

"Did you think I'd make a run for it?" I asked quietly. "Or be poised with stake and silver bullet?"

"Not until you got some answers," he said. His voice was a lot stronger, and I grinned at him, not bothering to hide my relief.

"Bull's-eye," I said. "What are you going to do about Wendlow and Two?"

"Rearrange their memories." He sat up, moving without too much effort or obvious discomfort. "There's still a couple of hours. Ask your questions, Lovejoy."

"I'll get the truth?"

"Yes, my word on it. The truth, or silence," he added with that smile of his.

"Okay. The portrait by Penton. It's you." He nodded. "I don't believe it," I said, but he carried on smiling because he knew I did. "Why? How? When did it happen? You becoming a - whatever it is." It was stupid, but I didn't want to say the word. It belonged to horror novels and meaningless films, not the reality sitting on the bed, watching me with eyes that reflected the light like living jewels.

"Night-hunter," he said softly. "Blood-drinker. Immortal--after a fashion. Why? Initially it was not entirely my choice. I was meant to die."

"Right," I said, "you can start at the beginning. But first I'm going to track down and raid Wendlow's supply. I think we both need a stiff drink."

###

When I returned with the whisky decanter and a pair of glasses he was lying back on the pillows, eyes closed. "Are you sure you'll be all right'?" I asked.

"I'm sure." He hitched himself up on the bed until he was wedged against the padded headboard. "Do you want the full story or the bones of it?"

"Whichever you've got time for. If necessary, details can be filled in later." I poured a tumbler of whisky and gave it to him, poured out my own. "Go on," I said. "I'm all ears."

The story didn't take that long to tell. It was all very simple on the surface. He was twenty-four years old, been married to Ann for nearly four years, there were two kids and one on the way. It was early in I589, England was still celebrating the victory over the Spanish fleet the previous year, and he'd gone with others to Bruges for some reason. There he met a woman called Alisande de Something Or Other and her brother Michel. He became, he said with a wry self-mocking shrug, completely besotted with her, to the exclusion of common-sense. One night even Michel had tried to warn him, but Alisande told him that her brother was jealous and he wasn't to take any notice of him. Then she had kissed him.

He glanced away from me at that point, and I could guess why if that incredible sexuality is part of the stock-in-trade.

But his awakening, if it could be called that, was a lot different to mine. The next thing he remembered was lying on her bed knowing he was dying. He could feel her mouth on his throat, could feel the life being drawn from him, and for all that he raged against it he could not even twitch a muscle.

Then Michel was suddenly in the room, pulling Alisande from him. There'd been a brief struggle and then it was Michel that was bending over him.

'Do you want to die?' he'd said. 'No? How much do you want to live? At any price? You can die, mon cher, or drink and live as we do.' And Michel had bared his arm, cut the flesh with a knife and let the bright blood flow.

Fox made his choice; not in the fear of dying, but in the fury of a young man who had known his life was being stolen before it had been fully lived. He drank Michel's blood, and slept as if drugged. When he awoke it was noon and the house was empty. Michel had left him a letter. It started with; 'In time to come you will not thank me for the gift of life, but I could not stand by and know that you would die. There have been too many deaths already and there will, of necessity, be more to come. One, at least, I can prevent, if only for selfish reasons.' He'd then gone on to give a rough idea of what would be happening to him and what to do about it. The do's and don'ts of the trade, so to speak.

I wasn't surprised Fox could recall every word, comma and full stop of that letter. I would, too, in his circumstances.

The changes, and he did not go into details, were slow, myths and legends notwithstanding. They took months, years, and some Michel either did not know about or did not tell him. For instance, Fox found out for himself that he could exist on animal blood, could eat and drink small quantities of animal products--like that bloody Bovril!--and gain a little nourishment from them. Alcohol, too, as well as tea and coffee, though they were about the only vegetable stuff his system could tolerate. Silver-aversion was a myth.

"Sunlight as well?" I said. "You were up and about the other day."

"I didn't have any option," he pointed out. "Thanks to you. Besides, it was foggy, as I recall. Bright sun burns me; too long in it and I'll die. On sunless days I need the leather clothes for added protection, but it weakens me. Summers are difficult," he added wryly, "even English ones."

"I thought you were on drugs, you looked so washed out." Then I thought of something else. "That whisky isn't doing you much good, then."

He chuckled and took a swallow. "It's not doing me any harm," he smiled.

I studied that pale face, every plane and curve, admiring the artistry of flesh over bone. Then belatedly the penny dropped. "Wait a minute, if you can put the 'fluence on them, why didn't you do it right at the start when they picked you up?"

"Because," he said with some irritation, "I'd come off the bike at high speed, and I promise you that concussion and a splitting headache make it impossible to influence anybody!"

"Oh." I thought of something else. "Wendlow showed me photos of your house. One had an old man in it. He looked a bit like you, in profile."

"It was me. Human blood maintains and sustains. Animal blood maintains only and not so well. In a matter of weeks I become slow, my joints ache and swell, and I look--and feel--about 90 years old."

"How long does restoration take?"

"You make me sound like Dandy lack's fire screen," he snorted. "A day or so."

"I see. Well, if you need something a little stronger than whisky at the moment," I heard myself saying, and saw his startlement--and the flare of hunger. He looked away.

"No," he said. "Thanks. I'm okay."

"'The truth,'" I drawled. "'My word on it.'" He flushed and his mouth set in an angry line.

"Lovejoy," he snapped, "you're a--"

"Be polite, Brat," I grinned. "I'm still your landlord."

"But not lunch," he cut back.

"Breakfast," I corrected. "Why not? I seem to remember being supper on one occasion." He flushed again, and I could have crowed with victory. Twice in as many minutes!

"Dowser!" he said disgustedly.

"Divvie. If you're being finicky, there's Wendlow and Two downstairs."

Slowly that one-sided smile grew on his face. "You taste better," he admitted.

"Glad to hear it." I leaned forward and kissed his mouth, tongue gently teasing, exploring the smooth sharpness of those white teeth. We didn't have time for anything more ambitious, I was sure, and besides, I didn't know what state his innards were in. But something weird was happening--things were getting decidedly fuzzy about the edges, sort of drifting away from me.... The bastard....

###

I awoke with a start and found myself staring up at the ceiling. I was on the bed and shower-sounds were coming from the bathroom.

I sat up. Felt fine, no dizziness, no lethargy. I stood up. No ill-effects. So I peered at myself in the dressing table mirror; no marks on my throat, either. We frowned at each other, my reflection and me. In fact, the only area of discomfort that I could pin down was an ache in my left hand, as if the ball of my thumb was bruised. Must have done it while I was fossicking about with Two and Wendlow. I glanced at it. There was no bruise, just a new and pink scar about an inch long.

"Just as effective as far as I'm concerned," Fox said quietly from the bathroom doorway, "if less intimate, and causes no comment. It'll be gone completely in an hour or so."

I stared at it, fascinated. "Why does it heal so fast?" I asked.

He shrugged and went back to towelling his hair dry. "Something to do with my saliva. It actually stops the blood clotting while I'm drinking. As soon as air gets to it there's some kind of chemical change and it causes fast clotting, fast scabbing and accelerated healing."

"You heal pretty damn fast as well."

"Part of the survival factor. As I said, immortal, after a fashion." His smile was bleak. "Unfortunately, regeneration does nothing at all about the pain."

"Can't have it all ways, Reynard, my Brat."

"That has to be one of your more fatuous comments," he muttered. "Did you say you had my t-shirt and jacket?"

"Coming up." His recent wounds looked like old scars, smooth and white on white. "How long before yours disappear?"

"A couple of days or so," he said, pulling the t-shirt over his head. "It'll take that long for the bone splinters to work their way out."

"Ouch." I winced, wishing I hadn't asked. There were, however, still one or two other questions buzzing in my head. Such as; how many of his ilk were there running around the countryside? The main blockbuster regarding my possible--erm--alteration?--had already been answered, if indirectly. I wasn't going to be joining the ranks of night-hunters, thank God, since nothing like what had happened between him and Michel had occurred between us.

It made a kind of sense, after all. If it was passed on like a disease, given the number of mealtimes and victims in only one hunter's lifetime, there would be an awful lot of 'em about. And then there was his wife. "Did you ever tell Ann?" I asked quietly.

There was a longish silence and I was beginning to think he wasn't going to answer. Then, "Yes," he said. "I told her eventually. When I could no longer hide the changes, the need to avoid sunlight."

He fell silent again, eyes distant, reliving a past that was centuries out of his reach. How do you tell your wife something like that? I tried to imagine telling Janie and it deteriorated into black farce.

But Ann Darcy came from a different age, one of deeply held religion, ditto superstition and blind faith. How would she have taken it? Not my business, of course, but I could make an intuitive guess. She'd have given him hell, then stuck by him, covered for him and loved him to her last breath, just as she had before. I didn't have to ask if he'd changed her. I knew he hadn't. Loved her too much to do that to her.

"When did Adam Courtney first die?" I asked instead.

"I624. Lost overboard in a storm off the Brittany coast. Ann had died the previous year." He met my gaze with a shrug and a sardonic smile. "That was when I started hating Alisande in earnest. And Michel."

"I'll bet. Did you track them down?"

"No, and I looked for them long enough."

"How about others?" I said delicately.

He shrugged again, but did not answer. I had the uncomfortable impression I was trespassing on the edges of some weird quasi-Masonic enclave, saw his growing smile and knew he was either reading my expression or my thoughts. As a distraction I took a look at my watch. It was nearly ten past four. How long before the girl from the lodge turned up to see to the horses? That, I seemed to recall, was an early morning job with most stables.

"I've got a lot more questions." I confessed, "but we're running out of time."

Fox nodded, leaned forward and kissed me, slow and deliberate.

"Later," he said. Then pulled on his boots, zipped them up and straightened. "Ready?" he said crisply.

"Yup," I said. "Let' s go get 'em, Brat."

###

It was something of an anticlimax. Two and Wendlow were still out of it when we went down to the workshop. Fox released Two, wedged him up against the radiator and cupped his face in his hands. The man's eyelids flickered and lifted. Terror flared across his face, then his expression blanked out as if he'd gone back to sleep again. They stayed like that for a few minutes, both of them unmoving. Then Fox shifted aside and Two got to his feet, walked past me as if I was invisible and went out of the door.

"Where's he going?" I bleated.

"To bed. One had the night shift. He'll get up at his usual time, go through his usual routine, during which he'll find the body."

"As simple as that?"

Fox nodded. "As simple as that. What do you want Wendlow to do about the painting?"

"Huh? Oh. Right." What the hell could I say without compromising the divvie-talent to some degree? Think fast, Lovejoy. "Erm, someone in London phoned and told him test results had come through and they were inconclusive. The painting could possibly be a forgery, but done on a piece of authentically old oak panelling. Since he won't settle for anything less than a dead cert he gave it to me and told me to get rid of it. I keep the commission already paid, but don't get any more payments. How does that sound?" It sounded pretty feeble to me, but probably his own memories would fudge round it. Fox seemed happy enough with the idea, anyhow.

"Fine," he said, and with great deliberation, claimed back his ring from the unconscious Wendlow's hand. "You left the day you arrived, after dinner. Me, they never saw at all." He did his trick with Wendlow, who also departed stage left without so much as a glance around.

We followed on his heels, me lugging the holdalls, Fox the portrait. Wendlow went his oblivious way up the stairs and we hunted around the ground floor rooms until we located a phone.

It didn't take Tink long to answer. Nor did it need a lot of special pleading on my part to get him to come to Stambourne and pick us up. It seemed that he was not at all surprised and had been expecting me to pull some kind of fast one. He was, however, a bit taken aback when I insisted that he get to the cottage and bring Miriam complete with trailer. That, he said, would cost me extra.

There was something else that might cost me as well. "What about the Rottweilers?" I demanded as we reached the front door. "I don't fancy being the second course on their menu."

"You'll be okay," he said, supremely confident. "Dogs don't give me any trouble."

Nor did they. The four big shapes were lurking around the lawn and came running as he opened the door, but they did not bark and they did not come closer than a couple of feet. They slunk on their bellies and whined a bit, showing teeth like band-saws, but that was all. The Brat ignored them as if they were so many garden gnomes.

###

And that, as they say, was that. We walked out of there unchallenged by man or beast and headed for the bus shelter in the middle of the village to await the Tinker Taxi Service.

Tink, bless him, didn't let us down. He arrived in record time, and on the way home we made a wide detour to see if we could rescue The Big Bugger, always supposing she hadn't already been found and salvaged, which might throw up some leading questions by the local bobby. But I had this feeling under my ribs she was still there, waiting for us. And she was.

With considerable difficulty, and an amazing display of profanity on Tink's part, we got her out of the river and up the bank, and inspected her in the light from Miriam's headlamps. There was damage, of course, but I couldn't begin to guess how serious it might be. All I could tell was that she looked as if she needed a period of intensive care in a garage. I hoped Fox had her insured.

We manhandled her into the trailer and headed homeward with, on my part, a sense of overwhelming relief. I had been expecting a lot of questions from Tinker, but they weren't as leading or as persistent as I'd've thought. I had a feeling the Brat had something to do with it. That 'fluence of his would be useful to have around, but I knew he wouldn't be staying much longer. Which was a pity. I'd become used to him hanging about, and it wouldn't be quite the same sitting in front of the fire of an evening, without him on the floor leaning back against my knees. Still, he wouldn't be going anywhere until The Big Bugger was repaired, and I intended to make the most of it, one way and another. Of course, Eric might turn up on the doorstep like the proverbial bad penny, but Fox and his 'fluence could deal with him. The fishing's good in Scotland, or so I've heard.

We reached the cottage just as dawn was lightening the sky, and I sent Fox inside to clean off the river mud and get his head down while Tink and I manhandled the bike to her place by the barn. He then squelched off in the direction of my alcohol with the unerring instinct of a lemming for a cliff, leaving me to my own devices.

I disentangled the slimy garlands of half-dead river weed from the bike and thought about things. Come the evening we'd pay Baverstock a social call, Fox and I. Knowing what I did now, I could almost feel sorry for the poor devil. Rupert wouldn't stand a chance; he'd give Ann away and never feel a thing. And when we got back home afterwards....

Wonder if Baverstock will demand his part-payment back?

Think I'll have a word with the Brat on that subject.

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