Lovejoy Omnibus (Books 1-4) by Gash Jonathan

Author:Gash, Jonathan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Constable & Robinson

Chapter 2

THE HOUSE WAS enormous, snootishly set back from the River Stour just in case any riverborne peasants disturbed the affluent class by nocturnal carousings. Some democratically minded leveller had parked a derelict old barge right against the private river walk. Even warped it to the balustrade with short ropes, I saw with amusement. A great mooring hawser was twined clumsily round an otherwise graceful weeping willow. A drive curved among yews and beech. There was a stylish ornamental pond and a fountain. Thank heaven, she’d avoided plastic gnomes. The mansion itself was beautiful. Even the door furniture looked original. As I puttered up the gravel I examined the house. Definitely Queen Anne, though some maniac had mucked about with the gables. You always get some nutter wanting to gild the gingerbread. The Ruby made it up the slight slope, though it was touch and go.

‘Lovejoy!’ She was on the doorstep, smiling. ‘How good of you to come so soon.’

‘I’ll just point this downhill.’ I coaxed one last effort from the half-pint engine and turned the car round the fountain. It wheezed thankfully into silence.

‘So you got my message.’ She hesitated. ‘Hadn’t you better cover your motor up? It looks like rain.’

‘I want air to get to it.’ I don’t like admitting it’s not got all its bits.

The hallway had its original panels, promising elegance and style right through the house. To realize how grim modern architecture is you have to visit a dwelling like this. Once you’re plonked down in a Sheraton chair gazing out through hand-leaded windows set in a balanced oak-panelled room you become aware what grotty hutches builders chuck up nowadays. Even the walls had feelings in this house. Beautiful.

She went ahead and we were welcomed by the drawing room. I’d have given my teeth for an engraved lead-glass cordial glass, its luscious baluster stem done in the form of a solid acorn. It stood, throbbing life, in a corner cabinet among some Silesian-stemmed glasses and managed to convey the appearance of having been there since it was made in 1700. The cabinet and its contents were three times as valuable as my cottage, with my tatty furniture chucked in. I dragged my eyes away and paid attention.

‘Do sit down.’

‘Er . . .’ There was only the Sheraton. It was like being told to sit on a kneeling bishop. I sank my bum reverently on to it, trying hard to contract my muscles and minimize the weight.

‘You were very definite about the sword,’ she began.

I hoped she wasn’t the sulky kind. Some of the honest old public – a right swarm of barracudas – become very funny when their dreams are shattered.

‘You obviously think it’s a forgery.’

‘A good one,’ I said, anxious to please. ‘Very good, in fact.’

‘But still a forgery?’ she said with careful insistence.

‘Er, well.’ There was no way out. ‘Yes. A good guess.’

‘I think not,’ she said. We sat in silence digesting this.

She sat opposite, definitely in possession. Bright, too. A really resilient character who’d seen a few unheavals in her time.

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