The Grail Tree Read Online Free Page A

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. Thatwas 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?
    ‘I’m afraid so.’ He wore his cleric’s dog collar like a slipped halo.
    ‘Er, excuse me please, Reverend.’ I edged past. It was beginning to look like somebody’s big scene. Rather private, but undoubtedly big.
    ‘Don’t go, Lovejoy.’ I dithered uneasily. ‘I apologize for having disbelieved you,’ she added to me, wrenching the words out before lashing back at her frail old pal. ‘But
why
, Henry?’
    He shuffled like a caught child. ‘Those wretched Council rates, Martha.’ He tried to appeal to me but I wasn’t having any. Definitely neutral, I began examining the Pembroke table’s hinges. ‘So tiresome,’ he cried. ‘Always more taxes, more charges.’
    ‘You promised to ask me, Henry,’ she said sternly, ‘before making any more things.’ My ears pricked. I’d found the forger, the cunning old devil. ‘You
promised
.’
    Hey-ho. The good old sexual stand-off. Womanversus man again. They said their lines a few more times while I moved gently to one side. Pembroke tables are among the most copied items of furniture on earth. Both of the natty little folding flaps must have three hinges. Each flap lifts up and rests on fly runners or rails.