The Grail Tree

by Jonathan Gash

‘If you think this is a lift, Lovejoy,’ he spat, ‘you can walk, because we’re going straight home this instant.’

  ‘Shut your face,’ I said as patiently as I could manage. ‘Look, lads. I’m going to the local hospital immediately. In this car. And if you’ve any other ideas, well, let’s get the chat over with.’

  They glanced at each other. I opened the driver’s door.

  ‘Into the back,’ I told them. ‘I’m driving.’

  They looked at my face and obeyed, while I asked the gate constable the way. I saw Maslow standing on the lawn watching us go. He didn’t wave either.

  It was the remains of, after all. The Reverend Henry Swan was dead on arrival. A shapely receptionist told us this, sounding really quite pleased everything had gone according to the book.

  ‘DOA,’ she explained, showing us the admissions list. ‘Do you wish to see the deceased?’

  ‘No.’ I halted. ‘Oh. Can you give a message to Inspector Maslow? He’ll be along shortly, when he can be bothered.’

  ‘Certainly,’ she said with pencil poised, sixty-five inches of syrup between two pearl earrings.

  The message is that I want an explanation. And to be sharp about it.’

  ‘And whom shall I say . . .?’

  ‘Tell him Lovejoy.’ I walked out.

  Martha Cookson was being accompanied to the police car. Her back had that brave look. No sign of Dolly. I watched her go. Sandy and Mel climbed silently in.

  I can remember Sandy sobbing in the back. Just as well he wasn’t driving. I can remember Mel saying with relish that anyway he’d told that awful bitch of a receptionist her nails were a mess and her twinset didn’t match, so there. I had the feeling it was somehow supposed to be a compassionate gesture. I can remember George doing his night round grandly stepping forward and holding up his hand at the chapel, and I can remember driving past without a word.

  I got out at my gate.

  ‘I appreciate your help,’ I told the silent couple. ‘I’m sorry it was such a shambles. I’ll, er, do your scan at the weekend. All right?’ Mel drew breath to speak again but finally said nothing.

  As Sandy, red-eyed and still catching his breath, turned the car I asked one last favour.

  ‘Should you happen to see George pedalling this way,’ I said kindly, ‘persuade him to go home. If he comes knocking I’ll break his legs. ‘Night.’

  I went inside and shut the door.

  Chapter 7

  I THOUGHT A lot next day. Now, antiques is a very rough game. Let me explain. .

  Once upon a foetid hot day in 1880, a daring young Captain rode out near Kabul and performed a heroic rescue of three merchants and certain important bits of their baggage from a fierce and marauding band of brigands. A brave lad. But the point is that he got nothing out of it, which is especially narking when you realize that inside those bags nestled part of the hitherto fabulous Oxus Treasure, almost priceless. Alas, the Captain never got a rupee. There’s a lesson hidden in there, fans.

  Don’t you try telling me that virtue is or has its own reward because it’s not and it hasn’t. Virtue has a sickening habit of breeding poverty and oppression. Everybody else benefits except the virtuous.

  I’m telling you all this because the Oxus Treasure – nowadays tantalizingly arrayed in the British Museum – is a typical instance of treasure-troving. Get the moral? Most treasure’s in a minefield of one sort or another. And mines go bang. Old Henry Swan had learned that. And I’m no hero like that brave captain.

  It was beginning to look as though the Martha and Henry saga of the Grail was not exactly Lovejoy’s scene.

  On the other hand, my mind went, you can think of a million examples of people finding treasure and living happily ever after. In dark old England, people are at it all the time. Right from our sinister prehistory to the weird present day, mankind’s precious works are scattered in the soil, under walls, on beams, in rafters, in chests and sunken galleys, in tombs and tumuli. You can’t help thinking.

  I got one of those Dutch cigars and sat on the grass to watch the sun reach the tall trees down in the copse. Nurse Patmore pedalled by, wobbling to wave. I waved back, feeling fond of her. Devotion to duty’s a wonderful thing, isn’t it?

  The point is that you have a choice. You can reach for the apple or you can resist the temptation. I felt I’d been warned. All the other antiques dealers had been warned off as well. Message received. Over and out. Some things just aren’t my business.

  ‘Sleep well, Henry,’ I said. ‘Sorry and all that.’

  I fed the birds some diced bacon rind. I brewed up and got a pasty. There’s a low decorative wall where the gravel drive starts. One day, I’ll finish it, but at the moment it’s a convenient place to eat and watch the world turn.

  On the other hand, I thought as I noshed, did you ever hear of anybody not reaching for a luscious dangling apple?

  Even God guessed wrong on that.

  I had a job to do that evening at the pub. Every year I accept a trainee. Usually they’re ghastly. You’ve just no idea. The trouble is that doting parents can’t accept that their offspring have the brains of a wooden rocking horse. Even established antiques dealers make the same mistake and send me buffoons who can’t tell a Rembrandt from a manhole cover. It’s a laugh. They even expect me to turn them into divvies. I take a fee for teaching these psychopaths, which keeps me in calories and helps me to stay, undernourished and shoddy, in antiques. This is important, because antiques are everything. Everything.

  By nightfall, I reckoned the pub would be jumping and getting ready for Lovejoy. I’d recovered enough to wash and shave and think of facing the ordeal. Tinker Dill sent word there’d be six to choose from. My one good white linen shirt was specially cleaned for the ordeal. I’d ironed it early. The cuffs were fraying but it’s better than those modern fibres which stick to your skin and never leave you alone.

  I locked up and started for the pub.

  Not every dealer has a trainee. Some don’t trust them. Most dealers are so ignorant about antiques that everything they teach is unerring crap. I’m not being flippant. There was the case of the forger who wrote letters in modern French, signed them ‘Plato’ and ‘Mary Magdalene’ and sold them as genuine antique letters by those worthies. There was the famous case of Billie and Charlie who minted ‘coins’ with gibberish inscriptions dated in modern numerals – and did so well they had to start up really serious factory-scale production.

  The saloon bar hushed for a split second as I pushed in. Then the talk quickly babbled up again, people just proving they weren’t there to see me picking a pupil out.

  Tinker Dill waved an arm. He’d got a drink for me on the bar. It’s his day, really. Mostly people normally ignore him. An event like this is the only chance he has to show off. He’d even taken off one of his mittens to reveal the poshness of the occasion, otherwise he was as grubby as ever.

  ‘Wotcher, Lovejoy!’ He pushed the drink at me. I always wait for the chance to wipe the rim in secrecy. Luckily, the risk of Tinker buying a round is small so it doesn’t happen often.

  There was a bigger crowd than usual. Betty Marsham was being determinedly casual in stylish black with pearls and her husband. He looked on about his fifth pint. Liz Sandwell was there, bossing her bloke about near the dartboard. Then there was the inevitable good old Alvin Honkworth, Esq., showing his true wit by bellowing out, ‘Hail! The Conquering Hero Comes!’ while sleek Bill Leyde tapped time on his glass. Dolly gauged the performance and my arrival like a referee measuring distances by eye. The flirtatious Angela was in, giving me the thumbs-up sign of optimism, which I suppose is one way of putting it. Jean Evans was on pink gin chatting to them both. She was in midsentence but managed a disapproving frown in my direction. Marion and Jed were standing talking to a couple of barkers. Mel and Sandy were there, whispering cattily to one another.

  Brad the flintlock dealer was eyeing up one of the new recruits, a plump young lass dressed plain and elderly with s
pecs and a bun. He has an eye for hidden potential. She sat in an alcove table trying to smile at the other five who’d written in. Funny how some women do their damnedest to look offended before you even start.

  ‘They’re all here, Lovejoy,’ Tinker told me, already partly sloshed. ‘Three blokes, three birds.’

  ‘Where’ve they come from, Tinker?’ I sipped and turned to see them. They hastily pretended to talk, feeling my gaze.

  ‘The quiet lassie dropped out of teaching college,’ Tinker began. ‘Her mum’s not keen on the trade.’ Sure enough, a frosty lady with a new Wedgwood cameo sat vigilantly by the saloon bar fire, knees tight together and clearly slumming in a bad cause. ‘Those brothers,’ Tinker growled on, ‘belong in London, dad on the Belly.’

  I sussed them in the mirrors. These two lads were cool and flashy, gold sovereigns mounted on tiepins and nineteenth-century Italian quartz intaglios mounted as rings, practically splashed down into scrambled gold by some berk. I hate to see antiques spoiled. You never add value by such fancy work. But having a father who traded on the Belly, London’s Portobello Road, meant that I could ask practically any fee.

  ‘My fame must be spreading,’ I told Tinker sardonically. ‘Tell those two to piss off.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Get rid.’

  The saloon quietened while Tinker did his stuff. It got quieter when my shoulder was tapped. I never turn round quickly because it doesn’t do.

  ‘Lovejoy?’ The elder brother was looking me up and down. ‘I said,’ he told me loudly, ‘are you Lovejoy, the divvie?’

  ‘Yes.’ We were speaking through the bar mirror.

  ‘Somebody’s going to be narked,’ he said. ‘Somebody it doesn’t do to push around. We’re here to get taught, friend. By you.’

  ‘Tell your pappy you’re too flashy and too ignorant. I don’t accept sham.’ I gave them a look. They dithered uncertainly. ‘Look, lads,’ I said eventually, turning now, ‘no hard feelings. But if you’re going to take a swing, get it over with. You can see I’m busy.’ They gazed about, unsure of the general feeling. They sussed me as a loner but hadn’t the nerve.

  ‘You’ll be seeing us, Lovejoy,’ the elder said, licking his lip nastily. They must have been raised on a diet of bad westerns. ‘Sykes is the name.’

  ‘What else?’ I said affably. They went, glancing ominously back.

  ‘In trouble, Lovejoy?’ Honkworth yelled, to widespread relieved laughter.

  I could see the remaining four in the mirror. Tinker slurped his pint glass to its echo. I signalled a refill.

  ‘Jesus, Lovejoy,’ Tinker worried. ‘Sykes is a bad lad. His lot’s a right tribe of tearaways.’

  I let him panic for a minute, observing the alcove. The one lad now left was embarrassed and trying to chat to the prim miss but she’d enough trouble of her own. Her mother, somewhat pale about the gills, had shot across the room and was now whispering feverish instructions into her daughter’s ear. She was getting only a determined headshake in return. Quite a little drama. The two other women seemed capable and businesslike (not always good signs in the antiques trade) and were distantly engaged in light chitchat.

  ‘Those two lassies have history degrees,’ Tinker said. ‘Both from shops. One’s local, the other’s from the Smoke.’

  ‘Mummy’s girl’s also local.’ Tinker’s voice went wary. He cleared his throat carefully. ‘The teacher sent her.’

  ‘Which teacher?’

  ‘The one you’re after, with the big knockers.’

  ‘Elegantly put, Tinker.’ Luckily, bar hubbub covered his flowery lingo. ‘Jean Evans?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tinker nodded. That obviously explained Jean being here this late. There’d be trouble if I slung her protegee out. ‘Margaret’s sent that chap in.’

  Hello, I thought, still more trouble.

  ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  Their faces seemed so fresh and alive. The prim lass jumped a little as I slid along the bench. Traditionally spit-and-sawdust, the White Hart had upgraded its saloon to a feeble mock-Tudor plush but its alcoves stayed wholesome.

  ‘This is Lovejoy,’ Tinker told them. The bar hushed a moment. I’d glimpsed the CID man as I’d crossed over, his expression one of surprise at all this reverence. The goon was smoking a pipe, too, just like Sherlock Holmes, eyes everywhere. Some people make you sick.

  ‘Hello.’

  They said hello back. The prim girl started fumbling for references in her handbag but I stopped her.

  ‘Tinker Dill’s told me who you are,’ I began. ‘Let’s get this straight. Whoever I take on gets no pay for six months’ full-time slog. Okay?’

  ‘In exchange for what?’ asked the London lass, cool.

  ‘Learning whether you’re any bloody good,’ I told her.

  ‘How many university degrees have you got, exactly?’ she cracked back, all eyebrows.

  I gave her a second for the chuckles to die down. ‘Bethnal Antiques Exchangery, right?’ I leaned across the table, grinning. It’s at times like this I’m at my most charming. ‘Three weeks ago, Clever Clogs, you snapped up a lovely original Wedgwood jasper vase, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, lighting a cigarette. I stopped to watch.

  ‘Notice the spelling on it?’ I said gently, still happy. ‘Wedgewood never spelled his name like that, with a middle “e”.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So Smith the forger couldn’t spell, love. Always got Wedgwood’s name wrong in 1840.’ She was looking less cool now. ‘Maybe spelling didn’t matter in your university, love,’ I commiserated gently, ‘but it does out here.’

  The other three were silent.

  ‘Better now?’ I asked the truculent lass. She nodded, grinding out her fag. I had to stop to watch that, too. ‘Names, please.’

  The tough nut was Olive. Her college pal claimed the name Angharad. The nervous lad said too quickly that people called him Col. With a name like Lovejoy you learn not to pry, so I just nodded. The prim lass was Lydia. And she looked as if she’d been striving to be a suppressed Lydia all her life.

  ‘Mr Lovejoy,’ a firm dulcetto cried. ‘I want to protest at this perfectly preposterous form of interview in a public house –’

  I turned. Good old Mummy steaming to protect young Lydia.

  ‘Mummy! For heaven’s sake,’ from Lydia, mortified and scarlet-faced.

  ‘Mummy,’ I said wearily, ‘shut your teeth.’ Mummy stalked back to the fireplace to beam more hatred.

  ‘You get a test tonight,’ I said. I slid folded paper between the wet beermats to each of the four.

  ‘A test?’ Olive said. She was as scandalized as Lydia’s mum. ‘You must be joking.’

  ‘Just mark a few ticks with your eyebrow pencil.’

  ‘Not a chance, Lovejoy.’ She rose and patted my cheek in farewell. ‘I didn’t struggle through university to get grilled by a rough in a pub.

  Some struggle, I thought, eyeing her shape to the saloon door. Three down, two to go. Good.

  I said, ‘Sitting comfortably?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Lydia said, then reddened. I was almost beginning not to believe in Lydia.

  ‘The test. Then do one other thing. Tomorrow, the Castle Museum. Have a wander. Spot which exhibit on Gallery Six is a cheap –’ I hesitated – ‘an expensive forgery.’

  ‘Gallery Six?’ Angharad thought, wrinkled. ‘Furniture.’

  Lydia and Col drew breath simultaneously but stayed quiet. They too knew their galleries.

  ‘And take your guess to Tinker.’

  ‘Where do we find Mr Dill?’

  I smiled kindly at Lydia’s innocence. ‘Try the George tavern,’ I told her. ‘He’s thirsty about midday.’

  Col hid a smile but Tinker sensed an opportunity.

  ‘A little rum, love, when I can afford it,’ he whined. ‘For my bad chest, my dear.’ He gave her his cadaverous gappy grin. ‘The war.’

  This charade was getting out of hand.

 
‘Shut it, Tinker, you stupid berk.’

  ‘Lovejoy!’ from Lydia, offended. I got up. It had been a long day and Ted was glugging me another drink at the bar. I said good night and left them to it.

  A few dealers moved casually to the alcove to see my questions, murmuring among themselves. I wondered how many of them could read. I also wondered who’d got my drink, and found the constabulary at my elbow, which solved that. Sherlock Mark Two, pipe on the go.

  ‘Why are you so broke, Lovejoy?’ he asked. ‘Seeing as you’re one of those magic divvies.’

  ‘Antiques need money, and I’ve not got any.’

  ‘Are you really that good?’ He nodded at the alcove.

  ‘One day, I’ll find another like me.’

  He smiled the way bobbies do, meaning watch your step whatever you’re up to.

  ‘Not in as much trouble as you, Lovejoy, one hopes.’

  ‘I’m not in any.’

  ‘Oh, but you are.’ He nodded at my glass. ‘Drink up. You’re coming down to the station.’

  ‘Am I?’ These goons really nark me. They’ll do anything except use their cerebral cortex.

  ‘Yes. Just a few questions.’

  ‘Arrest?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ A pompous tap of pipe on an ashtray which the universe was clearly expected to admire. ‘Just helping us with enquiries. I don’t want any fuss.’

  Suddenly it was all too much for me. Maybe it was the fug of the crowded saloon bar after a mad strange day. Maybe it was the indelible memory, suddenly brought back stark and horribly clear, of the pathetic bundle being pushed into the ambulance. Or maybe it was just the sight of Ted taking a glass of rum for somebody down the bar. Old Henry Swan had given me his rum in the hope that I’d stop being so bloody pompous and just bother to divvie some old pewter cup he’d got fond of. I had to fight back an abrupt nausea. I said, ‘I’m sick of you. Get lost.’

  ‘Look here –’

  I reached for his drink and spat in it.

  ‘People like you really make me spew.’ I even dug a finger into his chest. ‘Some old geezer got crisped and you haven’t a frigging clue what to do.’

  ‘Lovejoy. I could arrest you for –’