The Grail Tree Read Free

lives in a cottage next to the forge.
    ‘Yes, please, Mrs Bannon,’ I called back merrily, a real bit of Merrie England.
    ‘Two minutes, then,’ she trilled.
    ‘I can prove it,’ Bannon urged in a low, frantic voice, still keeping out of reach. ‘Just ask whoever has it.’
    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 flairfor 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