The Grail Tree Read Online Free PDF

She wears floral frocks. I know it sounds old-fashioned, but Liz never looks it somehow. ‘Finished,’ she asked blandly, ‘your inspection?’
    ‘Oh. Yes.’ I must have been looking at her too hard and too long. I wiped the lamp glasses and set about trimming the wicks.
    ‘Hard day at the pageant, I hear,’ she said. She accepted my quick glance blithely, all sweet innocence.
    ‘Not too bad.’ I was very preoccupied.
    ‘They say Betty Marsham’s gunning for somebody.’
    I said carefully, ‘That’s women all over, isn’t it? No patience.’
    She was laughing as I got both front lamps alight. The domes slid on with a comforting click.
    ‘One day you’ll get in real trouble, Lovejoy.’ Her hand paused, taking her matches back.
    ‘Who, me?’ I gave her my best angelic face.
    ‘Time to come in for a sherry?’
    The memory of her bloke floated across my mind. He’s the one they wind the rope around at the back of our tug-o’-war line. Our anchor man on account of his size, muscle and weight.
    ‘Er, another time, Liz. Thanks all the same.’ I hesitated. ‘Here, love. One thing.’ I asked her about Martha Cookson and her tame priest.
    ‘Henry Swan? Yes, I know him.’ A couple of modern cars swished grandly past, their headlamps illuminating the houses and trees. ‘He’s a manorial lord, one of those ancient titles. Poor as a church mouse.’
    ‘Poor? In a house like that?’ I began describing the mansion but Liz gave one of those short laughs which show you’ve missed the point.
    ‘It’s hers. Not his. Not any more.’
    ‘You mean . . .?’ I remembered their glances.
    ‘They’ve lived together for years. His family went broke. Mrs Cookson bought it.’ She shrugged prettily. ‘It was a terrific scandal years ago.’ Her dealer’s antennae alerted. ‘Why, Lovejoy? Are you buying from them?’
    ‘Just wondering. Social call, really,’ I lied easily.‘Look. Are they . . . well, reliable?’
    ‘Never heard anyone ask that about them before, Lovejoy.’ She paused. ‘Pots of money, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
    I nodded thanks, but I was getting one of those feelings. Maybe it was standing about in the evening cold after such a burning hot day. She told me about a couple of Jacobean pewters she’d salted away for me to see and said to come inside because it wouldn’t take a minute. ‘I’ve three lovely pieces of Irish cut glass as well, Lovejoy.’ I wavered, sorely tempted, but that tough anchor man would be back soon and I was in enough trouble.’
    ‘Tomorrow, if I can make it,’ I promised, cranking away.
    ‘I hope those lamps hold out, Lovejoy,’ Liz called as the Ruby creaked into a rather drifting acceleration. ‘Remember what happened to the Foolish Virgins and
their
lamps.’
    ‘Promises, promises,’ I yelled over my shoulder, but she’d gone in. Women always get the last word.
    It was full dark by the time I reached home. This cottage where I live, occasionally without assistance, lies in a small village a few miles north of our nearest big town. It’s one of those villages which people call sleepy, no street lights. Sleepy in East Anglia’s moribund anywhere else. We only have two streets, a church as old as the hills and a few straggly lanes leading off into rather spooky low-lying mist-filled valleys. A fine evening drizzle began. Welcome home, Lovejoy.
    ‘Good kid.’ I patted the Ruby’s stone-pocked radiator and blew its lamps out.
    The door seemed intact. I always check becauseantiques dealers are forever being burgled. I found the key and switched off the key alarm to save old George Jilks having another infarct in his police hut. He’s always on at me for being careless with it. That’s our modern police for you. No dedication.
    I washed and put the kettle on. There isn’t much space in the cottage. I had it rebuilt after the original burned down, which is why I’m still broke. A minuscule hallway leads into the one main living room with