The Grail Tree Read Online Free Page B

This luscious Pembroke was serpentined, double fly rails both sides. Glancing at Henry and Martha to check they were still at it, I stood on tiptoe and peered downwards. The inner aspects of the slender legs tapered elegantly, so maybe 1790. Definitely eighteenth-century, anyhow.
    I came to, smiling. Henry and Martha were watching me. Silence.
    ‘Oh, er . . .’ I cleared my throat and looked innocent. ‘You rang?’ Not a flicker of a smile from either. ‘Er, just looking.’
    ‘Henry. May I introduce Lovejoy.’ We bowed. That’s what a lovely old house like this does for you, puts back your manners a couple of hundred years. ‘Lovejoy, may I introduce the Reverend Henry Swan.’ We bowed again. No wonder people do nothing but slouch and yawn and scratch nowadays. There’s no point in bothering with things like manners if everything all around you’s plastic junk, is there? I even pulled out one of my cards and presented it with a flourish.
    ‘Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.,’ he read through lowered steel-rimmed specs. ‘Sotheby’s Authorized Expert, London.’
    Christ! I’d given him the wrong card. A quick improvisation was called for. ‘Ah,’ I said casually, ‘I’m no longer with – er – Sotheby’s. Not right now.’ You can have too much elegance. It’d made me forget which pocket held my legitimate cards.
    ‘Were you ever, Lovejoy?’ Martha Cookson was smiling now.
    ‘Well, not really.’ I shrugged at her but women get me really narked, always guessing more than is good for them. No wonder they get under your skin.
    ‘Ahem.’ Swan’s eyes twinkled. ‘A . . . freelance,’ he brought out proudly.
    ‘Yes,’ I replied. And broke, but I didn’t say that.
    ‘Is this the young man of whom you have spoken, Martha?’
    Of whom you have spoken, I thought. Dear God. I’d even have to get my tenses right. It was becoming one of those days.
    ‘Yes, Henry.’
    ‘Then why did he need to inspect the Pembroke?’ he asked. A shrewd old nut.
    ‘To find out
what
it was,’ I explained. ‘My bell only tells me
if
.’
    They glanced at each other, signalling with looks. I watched with sudden interest. You can always tell when people are more than just good friends.
    ‘Very well, Lovejoy.’ Martha Cookson came to a decision. Henry nodded agreement as she spoke. ‘We wish to commission you, Lovejoy, if that’s the right expression.’
    I sweated with relief. If things improved this quickly I’d be eating again soon.
    ‘Fine by me.’
    We all waited, some more patiently than others.
    ‘Oh!’ Henry Swan came to, a dusty little beam lighting his countenance. ‘Oh. Quite, Lovejoy. We . . .
dig
, don’t we, Martha?’
    ‘Dig, dear?’ She was lost.
    ‘Yes,’ he exclaimed impatiently. ‘You know, Martha.To understand, comprehend, appreciate.’ He gave a crumpled grin, unexpectedly toothy. ‘We may live in deepest East Anglia, Lovejoy, but we do move with the times. The retainer, dear. Deposit.’
    ‘Oh, the fee.’ She did the handbag bit. I felt the blessed ecstasy of notes in my digits. After listening to Henry’s dated slang, I deserved every penny.
    Suddenly, though, there was something wrong. They glanced at each other shiftily. We were waiting too long.
    ‘Good, good,’ Reverend Henry said, clearing his throat. ‘Ahem.’ He actually pronounced it A . . .
hem.
‘Good heavens! Is that the time?’
    ‘Are you free for lunch tomorrow?’ Martha Cookson asked affably.
    ‘I’ll be here.’ Another nasty wait. ‘Look,’ I said at last. ‘Sooner or later you’ll have to tell me what you’ve commissioned me
for
.’ I was beginning to lose patience. ‘Or do I have to guess?’
    ‘Goodness me,’ old Henry said. ‘How careless of us, Martha.’
    ‘You’d better explain, Henry.’
    ‘No. You, Martha.’
    ‘Both together,’ I suggested. A sudden thought. ‘It isn’t something you’ve half inched?’ They seemed quite blank. I translated. ‘Pinched. Stolen.’
    ‘Certainly