The Grail Tree

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘You okay?’ I asked. He seemed so casual about being a hero.

  ‘Not too bad.’ He put his kettle on, dripping water everywhere. ‘A Danish freighter on the Fasteners. Sandbanks. We got the crew off but the freighter’s a write-off.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘A write-off? Sunk?’

  ‘It’ll stay up another day, then founder. Look,’ he said, worried. ‘Was that Satsuma trade okay? I mean, there’s no insurance claim or anything? They were in perfect condition when I handed them over –’

  ‘It was great,’ I told him, rising. ‘Exactly what I wanted. There’s no fee for your information, but I’ll try to put some antique business your way.’

  ‘Who’s put new price tickets on all this?’ he asked suddenly, seeing his stuff slightly rearranged.

  ‘Me,’ I admitted. ‘No good throwing money away, is it?’

  He looked. ‘You’re no insurance man,’ he said eventually.

  ‘That’s true, Hal,’ I said. ‘Cheers.’

  I splashed over to the Ruby and lit the front lanterns with difficulty, using almost a whole box of matches in the devilish wind. All the while I was thinking how very odd of Mr Jamestown, to bring out his pair of common vases to a dinky trader like Hal stuck on this remote stretch of coast. And receive payment in a big juicy envelope. And then, lo and behold, to collect the same vases he’d already sold.

  Hal was still watching when I turned my motor round and came steaming past again towards the road inland. We waved politely, then the village lights faded in the storm’s grey wash and I was chugging home. My lonely little cottage would feel like Piccadilly Circus after that lot back there. Mr Jamestown’s nickname is Jimmo, who’d lately been fishing and bought a posh new car. In my innocence I sang happily as I drove. All I had to do now was knock hell out of Jimmo till he told me who he’d been blackmailing. I was still wet through and forty miles from my fireside, but in a sense I was home and dry. Within hours I’d do for the bastard who killed poor old Henry Swan. Downhill all the way. Or so I thought.

  A note was on the mat, in a pink and slightly aromatic envelope. LOVEJOY, ESQ. Only one person would give me an Esquire on an envelope. It had to be Lydia. I read the letter, a miracle testifying to decent standards and upbringing.

  Dear Mr Lovejoy,

  Mr Dill and I have ascertained that Mr Cask entered the Satsumas for Mr Jamestown in the auction. I think it quite possible that the arrangement was for the former to pay the money to the latter in secrecy.

  With best wishes, I remain

  Yours faithfully,

  Lydia.

  I’d never seen so many misters in all my life. Once deciphered, it meant that Jimmo had got Cask to slip the vases into Gimbert’s auction anonymously for him. I’d hardly taken my jacket off before the phone was on the go.

  ‘Lovejoy?’ No Mister this time, I observed. Something was rankling.

  ‘Thanks for the note, love. You did very well –’

  ‘As instructed, I visited Lennie and that horrid Jessica,’ she told me icily. ‘And put a deposit on the Satsumas.’

  ‘Er, now, love,’ I temporized.

  ‘Don’t now me,’ she snapped. ‘That horrible old vampire . . .’

  ‘Lydia!’ I gasped, quite overcome. ‘How could you use such language!’

  ‘Well. It was almost as if you and she were . . . party to some sordid agreement.’

  I got myself all offended. ‘Of course not. Anyway, why are you asking?’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m only expressing a perfectly proper interest in your moral welfare, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Thank you, Lydia,’ I said, moved. ‘I’ll take care.’

  ‘Please do.’ We paused and listened. ‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘Right, then. Good night, Lovejoy.’

  ‘See you, Lydia.’ What a lot of pauses, I thought.

  Chapter 17

  I WAS WAITING outside Jessica’s house. I’d knocked but she was probably oiling her face or whatever it is they do.

  ‘Morning, Jessica.’

  ‘This is an honour, Lovejoy. Sorry to take so long.’

  I followed the Chinese floral dressing gown into the living room. She has this place overlooking the Colne estuary, with farms and ships and that being boring in the wide window,

  ‘Don’t you just adore the view?’ She arranged her legs in an armchair opposite. She always has a lot of mascara and that green stuff round her enormous black lashes, and thick layers of lipstick. I gazed admiringly at her. Whatever they say about Jessica, she knows how to use cosmetics right.

  ‘Yes.’ My voice proved difficult.

  ‘I thought you would. Cigarette?’

  I shook my head. All this would have to wait till later.

  ‘I’ve come for the Satsumas.’

  ‘This very minute?’

  I nodded. She shrugged, smiling at how the silk gown slipped about her shoulders with the action.

  ‘I do appreciate your . . . gesture, Lovejoy, in this.’ She was a long time getting up. ‘It helps Lennie so much. Naturally, I will settle your charges.’ Our eyes still hadn’t dawdled on the panoramic view.

  ‘Jessica!’ Lennie’s drowsy voice murmured. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Lovejoy,’ she called back, eyes level on mine still. ‘For his vases. Just going.’

  ‘See you, Lennie,’ I called.

  ‘Lennie’s staying a couple of days,’ Jessica explained casually. ‘He, er, has a touch of flu and needs looking after.’

  ‘Wish him better,’ I said.

  We made it to her dining room, where the two Satsumas stood. I hefted them up, one in each arm. The white embossed overlaid outlines on them are so crude, but to keep up the facade I tried to look pleased.

  ‘I’m sure my payments will give you every . . . satisfaction,’ Jessica said without batting a single yardlong eyelash.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ I told her in the doorway.

  ‘Shall I ring to arrange an appointment?’ she suggested, blowing a casual smoke-ring.

  ‘Do.’

  I stopped on the reservoir bridge to get my breath back and inspect the vases. I felt them, touched and stroked. Same old dross. Ah well. Nothing for it. I’d just have to go down the Arcade and strangle Jimmo to within an inch of his life.

  I put the Ruby’s engine up the hill at a giddy fifteen. Now that everything was inevitable I felt like singing from relief.

  *

  Jimmo’s a born failure.

  I sent word to Margaret and Brad to be on the look-out for Jimmo. Typically, it was Tinker who found him, ringing and saying Jimmo was collecting stuff down at the Arcade.

  ‘Keep him there, Tinker,’ I said urgently. ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘How the hell can I?’ he quavered, peeved.

  ‘Do as you’re told.’

  ‘Oh, Gawd. If you’re in one of those, Lovejoy, I want nuffink to do –’

  I tore into town. It was as if my old crate could sense the excitement and hurtled eagerly forward clattering and panting like a two-year-old. Even Tinker was surprised to see me so soon. There were very few people about. All but two of the Arcade’s shops were shut. I could see the indefatigable Jason hard at it over his catalogues, and Margaret’s always the last to leave anyway. Lydia was probably in there going over the year’s local furniture sales. An occasional shopper cut through to the car park. The main street was emptying. Lovely. Hardly a witness in sight.

  ‘Wotcher, Lovejoy.’ Tinker was relieved to see me walk in. Invention’s not his strong suit so he was having a hard time keeping Jimmo there. ‘Just telling Jimmo here you’re wanting a Sutherland table.’

  ‘Ta.’ I gave Tinker a note and the bent eye. He scarpered towards the George, leaving me and Jimmo.

  ‘Could you drop by some other time, Lovejoy?’ Jimmo was locking up but I accidentally nudged the key from his hands. I picked it up helpfully.

  ‘Well, since you ask, Jimmo,’ I said, smiling, ‘no.’

  ‘Eh?’

  I we
nt straight through. Jimmo has one of the smallest places in the Arcade, one room and a nook.

  ‘Right heap of dross you got here, Jimmo.’ It actually wasn’t too bad. There was a perfect Coalbrookdale vase, for instance, but I felt in an offending mood.

  ‘It’s not so bad as some.’

  ‘Tell me, Jimmo,’ I said gently. ‘All of it.’ A pause, me smiling. ‘About Satsuma vases. Start with them.’

  I sometimes think we never really look at people until it’s in a battle, and often by then the chance of looking and knowing others as they really are has evaporated. Jimmo’s a burly bloke, neater now than ever I remembered him. There was an air of cockiness he had never shown before. I would change all that.

  ‘Your good times are gone, Jimmo. Turned into slush and vanished down the gutters of time.’

  ‘You’re bleeding barmy.’ The goon was grinning.

  ‘Satsumas,’ I said, between him and the door. We’d somehow changed positions.

  ‘Them?’ He cackled without an ounce of amusement in it. ‘I sold them. I charged too little –’

  ‘You know what I think?’ I pushed when he tried to go past.

  ‘I’m in a hurry –’

  ‘I think they’re the most crappy, ordinary Satsumas you could ever clap eyes on.’ His sulks returned. He now looked the same old Jimmo, miserable and down on his luck, a scrubber through and through.

  ‘Nowt to do with me, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Oh, it is.’ I prodded him, not too hard because there was his Sutherland table nearby. With those curved feet they tend to get kicked enough as it is. ‘You went fishing on the Stour one dark night. You saw something odd happen on the other bank near the old barge. Like, say, somebody sawing a hawser. And an old bloke coming out and getting done. You put the screws on the murderer, didn’t you, Jimmo? To make the handover look legit you said you’d sell him the Satsumas – the biggest, gaudiest things you had. So he’s no antiques dealer, is he? To save him having to come here you took them to an out-of-the-way dealer down among the fishing villages. Drabhanger.’

  ‘This is balls, Lovejoy.’ He was pale to the gills.

  ‘I had a long talk with Hal.’

  ‘Hal?’ He tried to bluster it out. ‘He knows sod all.’

  ‘The money came in an envelope, Jimmo. Hal passed it on to you.’

  ‘It’s legal, Lovejoy.’ He was weighing his chances, glancing more and more at the Arcade outside. Where did he dream he might escape to, for heaven’s sake?

  ‘You stupid berk.’

  ‘Stupid?’That stung.

  ‘Why did you go back for the bloody vases?’ You can’t help wondering at people’s mentality. ‘Don’t bother explaining, Jimmo. You actually began to wonder if they were really valuable, right? A kid of ten could tell you the world’s kneedeep in Second Satsumas.’

  ‘I didn’t want to get robbed.’ Sulks now, force five.

  ‘Nobody does, Jimmo.’

  ‘Anyway, there’s no evidence. I sold the vases again.’ His unpleasing shifty look was there again. ‘Anonymous buyer, Continental. He’s got them and only me knows –’

  ‘No, Jimmo.’ Some people are just wrong every time they open their mouths. ‘Me.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Me. I own them, fingerprints and all. Yours. Hal’s. And . . .?’

  His expression cleared into horror as the penny dropped. ‘You bastard!’

  It was a yell, sustained and loud. He lunged at me. I just had to take it because my bell had been going since I’d arrived and I saw why the same instant Jimmo moved. The beautiful Cuban mahogany chair was to my right in a space near a phoney oak chest. If I hadn’t been so worked up I’d have known instantly. So there I was like a bloody fool partly stunned by a swinger from Jimmo with my teeth rattling in my head. A spray of blood sprang from my mouth as he crashed savagely forward. In the cramped shop the only way I could hit back would have been to kick the luscious thing aside or leap up on to it to clobber the advancing Jimmo. Naturally, retreating all the time, I had to take three more vicious hooks from the stupid berk before I was in the space near his open door. My right eye got the last blow. By then my mind was clouded and he’d kicked me in the belly but at least we were clear of the lovely exquisite chair. I surprised him by bringing him forward. That enabled me to hack his kneecap out of place and while he screamed and doubled I fetched him one under his ear. He fell heavily, still swinging. For a second my heart nearly stopped because his foot flailed out and almost scraped the ancient mahogany chair leg. Instinctively I stuck my own leg in the way, which brought me down too. I had to twist to avoid the precious chair. My rib cracked as I fell awkwardly.

  Even as Jimmo kicked at me while we tumbled scrappily among the furniture, I knew it was a memorable piece. Only the inside of the front legs tapered. Sabre-shaped curves would have put it about 1810 instead of its true date of 1785.

  Wheezing with the chest pain, I got to my knees a second before Jimmo had managed to kick his damaged leg again. There was one almighty crack. For a terrible instant I thought it was the chair but it was only Jimmo’s bone, thank God.

  ‘Lovejoy!’ Women are always critical first and sympathetic eighth. I stepped over Jimmo and picked my way back to the chair, wheezing. Beautiful. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Happened,’ I corrected. Lydia was on her knees beside the rumpled Jimmo.

  ‘It’s my leg,’ he whispered. ‘I heard it go.’

  ‘How much for this chair, Jimmo?’

  ‘Lovejoy!’ Lydia was up and pulling me round for a lecture, which hurt so much I groaned worse than Jimmo. ‘Lovejoy! Have you set upon this poor man? How could you! Why –?’

  ‘Give you back the Satsumas for it, Jimmo?’

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Lydia was looking at me. ‘You’re a mess.’

  ‘Call an ambulance for Jimmo, love. Go on.’

  She rushed out after a short hesitation. I stood over Jimmo so he could look up and see if I was serious or jokey.

  ‘Well, Jimmo?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Lovejoy –’

  He screamed because I’d accidentally stood on his leg. It lay turned out in the usual position of a femoral fracture. I thoughtfully turned it inwards in case he’d misunderstood. He screamed again.

  ‘Who was it, Jimmo?’ He was sobbing and dribbling saliva. ‘Who did you see at the barge that night?’

  He finally yelled the name out but it took several seconds to register.

  ‘Honest to God, Lovejoy,’ he gasped, trying to palm my heel away from his leg. ‘I took his car number from out in the lane. I only saw it again by luck the next day, or I’d not have found him. Please, Lovejoy. Leave me alone.’

  ‘Where’s the saw?’ I needed evidence badly.

  ‘How the hell should I know.’

  ‘And the thing he took from inside the tree?’

  ‘Some sort of box.’ His voice rose again to a wail because I’d turned his foot again. ‘For Christ’s sake, Lovejoy. I’m frigging dying –’

  ‘You got it?’

  ‘No! No! Honest to God, Lovejoy –’

  ‘Sell your car, Jimmo. And all other possessions you own. Understand?’ I lowered his leg carefully. ‘Give half to Margaret for her wrecked shop, and half to Hal towards a new boat engine. Understand?’

  ‘Please, Lovejoy –’

  He was finally persuaded by the unmistakable logic of my argument. I left him alone, satisfied now.

  I examined the lovely chair. Mahogany was a delectable gift – one of many – from the New World to the Old. The most precious mahogany’s Cuban. It’s a dark, deep and heavy wood which furniture forgers have only recently learned to imitate with anything like accuracy. If you have the moving experience of handling old Cuban mahogany you’ll see it doesn’t plane into ordinary wood shavings like, say, pine. It flakes, as if you were trying to cut a bar of chocolate with a kitchen knife. Unjointed furniture made of Cuban mahogany over three foot widths is rarest. Nowadays original Cuban
mahogany is practically impossible to get hold of.

  This chair was practically black – the shade Cuban mahogany eventually takes up – but its eminences and edges shone brilliantly with a deep hot-toned russet that must be world’s most exquisite colour ever seen on any antique. Sheraton preached that brickdust in a linseed oil base was the way to get that final finish exactly right, and I won’t argue.

  Jimmo and I agreed to swap the Satsumas for the lovely antique chair, though he moaned a lot. When Lydia returned I was sitting proudly but gently on the beautiful object. I listed a bit but I’d stopped my face bleeding and made sure my teeth were still in place. My right orbit was bulbous and I couldn’t see out of it. You can’t have everything. I tell you it was bloody hard work just sitting.

  A worried CID youngster came and took down the details – how I’d been strolling by when I’d seen my friend and colleague Jimmo struggling with two evil bandits, their faces hidden by scarves. Brave me, I’d gone to my friend’s rescue and been injured. They’d finally taken flight on the arrival of Lydia from next door. He took it all down.

  ‘She’s a really game girl,’ I praised, giving Jimmo the bent eye.

  He glanced from me to Lydia and back again. He began to cerebrate. Slowly, but definitely.

  ‘What is the, er, relationship,’ he asked carefully, ‘between yourself and this young lady, sir?’

  ‘Apprentice,’ I explained. Even the ambulance men paused at that. Jimmo was being put on to the stretcher. The CID man gazed at Lydia, who nodded.

  I spelled helpfully, ‘A-P-P-R –’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ He wrote and turned to Lydia. ‘Can you describe either of these assailants, miss?’

  Decisions are funny things. I could feel Lydia’s decision struggle with her training until it rose coherent and immutable. She avoided my eye, still full of conscience.

  ‘In a way, Inspector,’ she began earnestly. ‘The tall one wore an old duffel coat and had brown gloves –’

  I shrank back in a sweat of relief. No use phoning Maslow about the killer yet. He’d have us making statements and dithering till the Last Trumpet. I only wanted a bit of justice. And, make no mistake, justice includes reparation, punishment. In my book that doesn’t mean two years in clink with ten months off for good behaviour. It means that one of us had to get finished when we met to settle the matter.