The Grail Tree

by Jonathan Gash

  I paused. He had a point. ‘Fair enough, Bannon. Know of any others besides yourself?’

  ‘None any good.’ He thought a bit more. ‘That Southend geezer two years ago.’ He’d been clinked by the magistrates and was still doing porridge. No remission. He’d used Britannia metal of 1897 vintage to solder a forgery of an eighteenth-century Florentine smallsword, so it served him right. I’m all for upholding law and order, I told myself piously. I’d have to find out from Mrs Cookson.

  I stepped away, nodding. ‘See you, Bannon.’

  ‘See you, Lovejoy,’ he called thankfully.

  ‘Tell your missus I had an emergency.’

  Luckily, the Ruby’s engine hadn’t cut. I clattered round the pond in an erratic circle and headed for the pub half a mile away. The wind was behind me so I’d make it before dark. It’s all downhill. Two kids overtook me on their bikes, pedalling and jeering like mad. If I’d the power I’d have caught them up and given them a thick ear.

  So there was another expert forger living locally. But who the hell was he and why hadn’t I heard of him? I was extremely peeved. The antiques game is difficult enough. If he was useless, like so many forgers of antiques, it wouldn’t have mattered. But I’d seen the sword. It was good – too good by far.

  The pub was crammed. I signalled ahead and Ted the barman waved acknowledgement. The crowd was mainly refugees from the pageant’s shambles, plus the usual sprinkling of antiques dealers. Saturday evening is assembly night. We gather in pubs all over England and lie about how great things are in the antiques business.

  Tinker was with a group of barkers near the fireplace chatting light-heartedly of happier and cheaper times, the way they do. During the fight through the saloon I had a word with Angela, a tiny flirtatious piece full of ceramics and pre-Victorian tapestries. She’d married a local landowner a year ago and ran her antiques business on the proceeds of hubby’s colossal income. Every little helps, I always say.

  ‘Bill’s got a de Wint watercolour,’ she told me.

  ‘He says,’ I shot back.

  ‘And you still owe me for that Keppel.’

  Today’s tip: buy the best-condition first editions of the early scientific geographers you can lay your hands on. Like Keppel, Cooke, Darwin. Don’t delay or you’ll be sobbing into your beer too. My great fault is I don’t let a little thing like my abject poverty get in the way of buying. It’s a handicap. It’s also why I’m always in debt, mainly to people like Angela.

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Er, will tomorrow do?’

  ‘We might come to some arrangement,’ Angela said, looking cool and straight at me. My eyes wavered first. You never know exactly what women mean, do you?

  ‘I’ll bring the money round,’ I promised.

  ‘Do,’ she said precisely. ‘Fancy a set of Windsor wheel-backs?’ She was with John Laxton, her barker. He’s a senile sour-faced rum drinker with a flair for porcelain. Not as good as Tinker Dill at sniffing antiques out but more knowledgeable.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ I said. ‘But my warehouse is full.’

  There was laughter at that. Ownership of a huge warehouse is the antiques dealer’s favourite myth. Saying it’s full is our slang for being broke.

  ‘Tinker.’ I got to the bar and Ted had it ready. He was going to exchange a word but saw my face. No chitchat.

  ‘Here, Lovejoy,’ Tinker began nervously. ‘Don’t blame me.’

  I rounded on him. ‘A bloody forgery, you stupid berk.’

  ‘I wasn’t to know, was I?’ He slurped his beer fast to encourage me into buying another. Dealers have to provide their barkers with beer, and on very rare occasions food as well. ‘Even old Sowerby said it was real.’ Sowerby’s been the village schoolmaster since Adam dressed. I wasn’t mollified. Betty would be raging at me for days now, women being notoriously unreasonable. We might not get another chance to meet till the next Open Championship. Her husband’s a golfer.

  ‘Next time . . .’ I let the threat hang. Of course both of us were smiling affably, just being a dealer and his barker chatting in the pub. You don’t advertise arguments in our game.

  ‘I didn’t know it was naughty,’ he said defensively.

  Naughty is also dealers’ slang. Old pewterers’ marks, if forged, were called ‘naughty’ hundreds of years ago. Now it means crooked, fake, wrong, in the sense of being deliberately falsified.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said, hoping some kind recording angel would note my forgiveness and somehow persuade Betty to say the same to me. ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘Ta, Lovejoy.’ Tinker was relieved. ‘Here.’ He pulled out of the depths of his filthy old overcoat a piece of paper. ‘That fat lady gave me this.’ He meant Mrs Cookson.

  I took in gingerly. A group of helpers gusted in from the pageant calling greetings and orders. It must be about finished. They had a lorry outside the pub’s garden, laden with wood and scaffolding, obviously thirsty work.

  Her letter asked me to call on her at my earliest convenience. An elegant little scribble on a page torn from a notebook, obviously done hurriedly on the spur of the moment. The address was in Buresford, a larger village about seven miles north.

  ‘What the hell’s she want?’ I grumbled.

  ‘You must have made an impression,’ Tinker leered, nudging me suggestively.

  ‘Shut your teeth.’

  ‘It, er, looks a good tickle, Lovejoy,’ he urged. I eyed him suspiciously.

  You can always tell when a barker doesn’t come clean. Barkers are a curious mob. They’re never precisely honest on principle. This doesn’t mean they’re treacherous. On the contrary, it requires a very durable kind of morality to be a barker – you’ll see why later on.

  I decided I’d better go, even if it only turned out a commission job for a quid.

  ‘Look, Tinker.’ I spoke fast. ‘When Lardie comes, tell him I’ll have that Gujerat silver brooch, but his Whiff-Waff’s too dear. Okay?’ Lardie’s a wealthy po-faced lanky dealer from Norfolk, in love with antique jewellery, old West African ethnology, a rich Clacton widow and himself, in reverse order. To him that hath shall be given.

  ‘His what?’

  ‘Whiff-Waff. Table tennis was called that years ago.’ The cased sets aren’t worth much even now but they add colour to any antiques shop which displays one. Our trade admires touches like this.

  I pushed to the exit, waving to Angela. Honkworth barged into me at the door, arriving with sundry crawlers. There are only two kinds of people who can’t go about without an entourage. One kind’s the real leader of men, like your actual Napoleon. The other kind’s the born duck-egg. Guess which category Honkworth’s in.

  ‘Why, it’s Lovejoy!’ he boomed. ‘Let’s see him off!’ They trailed me outside, to my embarrassment. We all park our cars end-on towards the old inn’s forecourt. Honkie had cleverly placed his massive Rolls-Bentley tourer blocking my little Ruby in, a typical touch of light humour. He made a noisy exhibition of shifting it, revving and backing. I just waited while this pantomime was going on, leaning on the wall and saying nothing. A few people emerged from the public bar to cheer him on. Honkworth attracts sightseers, but so did Attila the Hun.

  He had three adorers with him. One was a bleak unsmiling man, young and tall with a waistcoat like a flag day. Hair slicked down, thin tash, early Gable. I’d seen him before somewhere, a property agent if ever I saw one. Even when he smiled it came out as a faint sneer. You know the sort. The two women were sharp contrasts. The younger was looking slightly uncomfortable at all this mullarky, bonny and light. Good bones. I don’t know quite what it means when people say that, because all bones are good, aren’t they? But it sounded exactly right when I looked at her. Somebody had chosen the wrong earrings for her, pendants too long with a casual dress. The older woman was florid and bouncy, given to sudden shrill burst of laughter through teeth like a gold graveyard. She darted excitedly malicious glances at me with every one of Honkie’s noisy witticisms.

  ‘Milord, t
he carriage awaits!’ Honkworth yelled. Only Honkie can misquote a sentence that short.

  I swung the handle. Naturally, it didn’t fire till third go, to ironical jeers of all. By then I was red-faced and looking at the ground.

  ‘Remember the speed limit, Lovejoy!’ Honkie yelled.

  ‘Everybody pray for rain!’

  And they say wit is dead.

  I climbed in and clattered off. As the diminutive Ruby began to move I got in a wink at Honkworth’s young blonde, just to set folks wondering. Passing between Honkie’s massive tourer and the laden lorry made me feel I was pedalling a walnut. The swine reached out and patted me on the head as I passed.

  I had to skirt the scene of the pageant to reach the main Buresford road, so I stopped to see if Betty was still about. The field was emptying now. Bunting was being rolled. A few stray coloured papers were blowing across the grass in the early evening breeze. Some village children called ‘Hello, Lovejoy,’ chasing rubbish into plastic bags. I waved. All the trestle tables were gone. Most of the stalls were dismantled. Some blokes from our victorious tug-o’-war team were getting the marquee down, Betty’s husband with them. No sign of her. I’ve heard women take it out on their husbands when they’re mad. I wonder if it’s true. He’d soon find out.

  No sign of Mrs Cookson either, so there was nothing for it. Throttle down to get the right feeble spluttering sound, and kerzoom. Off. I’d worked it out by the time I reached the road. Open country, seven miles. Say an hour, with a following wind.

  Chapter 2

  THE HOUSE WAS enormous, snootishly set back from the River Stour just in case any riverborne peasants disturbed the affluent class by nocturnal carousings. Some democratically minded leveller had parked a derelict old barge right against the private river walk. Even warped it to the balustrade with short ropes, I saw with amusement. A great mooring hawser was twined clumsily round an otherwise graceful weeping willow. A drive curved among yews and beech. There was a stylish ornamental pond and a fountain. Thank heaven, she’d avoided plastic gnomes. The mansion itself was beautiful. Even the door furniture looked original. As I puttered up the gravel I examined the house. Definitely Queen Anne, though some maniac had mucked about with the gables. You always get some nutter wanting to gild the gingerbread. The Ruby made it up the slight slope, though it was touch and go.

  ‘Lovejoy!’ She was on the doorstep, smiling. ‘How good of you to come so soon.’

  ‘I’ll just point this downhill.’ I coaxed one last effort from the half-pint engine and turned the car round the fountain. It wheezed thankfully into silence.

  ‘So you got my message.’ She hesitated. ‘Hadn’t you better cover your motor up? It looks like rain.’

  ‘I want air to get to it.’ I don’t like admitting it’s not got all its bits.

  The hallway had its original panels, promising elegance and style right through the house. To realize how grim modern architecture is you have to visit a dwelling like this. Once you’re plonked down in a Sheraton chair gazing out through hand-leaded windows set in a balanced oak-panelled room you become aware what grotty hutches builders chuck up nowadays. Even the walls had feelings in this house. Beautiful.

  She went ahead and we were welcomed by the drawing room. I’d have given my teeth for an engraved lead-glass cordial glass, its luscious baluster stem done in the form of a solid acorn. It stood, throbbing life, in a corner cabinet among some Silesian-stemmed glasses and managed to convey the appearance of having been there since it was made in 1700. The cabinet and its contents were three times as valuable as my cottage, with my tatty furniture chucked in. I dragged my eyes away and paid attention.

  ‘Do sit down.’

  ‘Er . . .’ There was only the Sheraton. It was like being told to sit on a kneeling bishop. I sank my bum reverently on to it, trying hard to contract my muscles and minimize the weight.

  ‘You were very definite about the sword,’ she began.

  I hoped she wasn’t the sulky kind. Some of the honest old public – a right swarm of barracudas – become very funny when their dreams are shattered.

  ‘You obviously think it’s a forgery.’

  ‘A good one,’ I said, anxious to please. ‘Very good, in fact.’

  ‘But still a forgery?’ she said with careful insistence.

  ‘Er, well.’ There was no way out. ‘Yes. A good guess.’

  ‘I think not,’ she said. We sat in silence digesting this.

  She sat opposite, definitely in possession. Bright, too. A really resilient character who’d seen a few unheavals in her time. I began to wonder where all her wealth had come from. We were both being quite pleasant but wary with it.

  ‘The point is, Lovejoy,’ she resumed, ‘the sword has deceived the most expert authorities in its time.’

  ‘That means you know the faker.’ I tried to turn it into a question at the last minute and didn’t manage it.

  ‘Yes.’ More pause, with me wondering how to ask straight out. ‘Your friend,’ she continued. ‘He told me you’re one of those special people who just . . . know.’

  Friend? She must mean Tinker Dill. Good old blabbermouth. ‘He means well,’ I said lamely.

  ‘A . . . a divvie?’ The word was unused to her.

  Silence.

  ‘Are you one, Lovejoy?’ She seemed fascinated, full of interest. ‘If there’s a fee for revealing this . . .’

  I drew in that lovely luscious aroma of money.

  ‘All right. I’ll tell you. No.’ I stopped her reaching for her handbag. ‘I only charge for work done.’ I swallowed, nervous as a cat. ‘Yes, I’m a divvie.’

  She examined me as one does a specimen, head tilted, eyes everywhere. I felt uncomfortable. My shirt cuffs are always a bit frayed. If I’d known I was visiting posh I’d have hurried back to the cottage and pressed my one good pair of trousers.

  ‘I’d heard there were such people but never expected to meet one. What actually happens?’

  ‘I don’t know. Honest.’ I’m always nervous talking about myself. ‘Saying you’ve a gift sounds like bragging, because it’s so special. A divvie just . . . well, knows.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t understand it myself.’ I struggled to explain. ‘Think of a woman who just knows when the colours in a redecorated room are exactly right. That’s a sort of gift, too.’

  ‘It’s also common sense, Lovejoy.’ A reprimand.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ I countered. ‘It’s a gift. Some have a gift for handling dogs, for designing clothes. Or take to the piano like – like Franz Liszt. Some have it for finding water with a bit of twisted stick –’

  ‘Water-diviner!’ she exclaimed. ‘Divvie. I see.’

  ‘Everybody’s a divvie,’ I added. ‘Nobody’s left absolutely without some special gift. For knowing the feel of a true diamond. For knowing straight away which horse will run fastest, which boat will balance right. There are divvies everywhere, for everything. For knowing next year’s weather. Which bushes will grow. What musical notes will hold the imagination of millions. Even for knowing what’ll happen.’ I didn’t mean to become so enthusiastic, but it’s true. Nobody’s left out. You as well, dear reader. You might be the world’s greatest living divvie for antique Sumerian gold. Find out quickly what your special gift is, for heaven’s sake, or you’re being thrown to waste.

  ‘And you’re an antiques divvie.’

  ‘Yes.’ I wondered how to explain. ‘It’s like a bell. In my chest.’

  She pointed to a picture, a small watercolour. It hung over a Pembroke table. ‘Try that sketch.’

  I crossed to look. A few dashes of the brush for a wash, a demented scar of Prussian blue, three fast smudges in Vandyke brown. All on a torn page. That was all. But it screamed of Dedham’s church on a blustery autumnal evening, with the sea wind gusting up the Stour for all it was worth. Bells clamoured and rang. Beautiful, beautiful.

  I could hardly manage the words. ‘Original. Constable?’

 
; ‘Good.’ She’d followed me to watch. ‘We have the provenance.’

  Nowadays, with so many forgers about, provenance is vital. Innocent buyers should demand written proof of a painting’s progress, right from the artist’s lilywhites into your very own. That means evidence of the original sale, bills of purchase, auction dates and invoices. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. If you’re going to become a regular collector you should make a secret list of the painters of whom forgers are especially fond. Just for a bonus I’ll start you off with the first three: the brilliant David Cox, the elusive Samuel Palmer, the magic John Constable. Good luck.

  ‘Even,’ Mrs Cookson was saying, ‘even the frame’s original. Constable framed it himself.’

  ‘Balls,’ I said. ‘Er, I mean, impossible.’ I closed my eyes, touching the frame. No bell. No life. Phoney. I borrowed a tissue and rubbed gently. The frame gave up a light russet stain. ‘Look, love. It’ll stain a wet tissue for years yet. Modern crap.’

  ‘But . . . it can’t be.’

  ‘Somebody’s knocked it up recently.’ You have to be patient. Women can be very possessive, worse than any bloke. I showed her the bright glistening creases, always a dead giveaway. ‘Easily done. Fresh beechwood. Varnish. Then sandpaper a spare piece of beechwood over the dried stain and rub it in with your finger. It’ll age a hundred years in about ten minutes.’

  ‘How dare you!’ She rounded on me furiously.

  I was halfway to the door in a flash. ‘I’ll not stay for tea, love.’ You get too many of these scenes in the antiques trade to waste time. Another end to a beautiful friendship. The trouble is that people love their illusions.

  ‘He’s right, Martha.’

  I almost barged into the speaker. A thin wisp of a man blocked my way. Well, hardly blocked. A featherweight sixtyish. He looked as if he’d actually been born that tiny shape, slightly balding, in his waistcoat. And he hadn’t grown much. If I hadn’t spotted him in time I’d have stepped on him and driven him in like a tent peg.

  ‘Henry!’ Martha Cookson twisted anguished hands. ‘Not you again!’ Again?