Free The Grail Tree by Jonathan Gash Page B

out,’ I said. ‘You’re the detective. Where’s Mrs Cookson?’
    ‘The hospital,’ he answered evenly. ‘And I would advise you not to adopt that tone with me, sir.’
    I honestly pity them when they go all official. ‘And I would advise you to use your frigging cerebral cortex,’ I heard myself say. ‘Try.’
    ‘Are you impeding a police officer in the performance of his duty?’ he intoned.
    ‘Some performance.’ Sometimes they’re just pathetic.
    I walked to the drive where Sandy and Mel were arguing. Mel rounded on me spitefully.
    ‘If you think this is a
lift
, Lovejoy,’ he spat, ‘you can walk, because we’re going straight home this instant.’
    ‘Shut your face,’ I said as patiently as I could manage. ‘Look, lads. I’m going to the local hospital immediately. In this car. And if you’ve any other ideas, well, let’s get the chat over with.’
    They glanced at each other. I opened the driver’s door.
    ‘Into the back,’ I told them. ‘I’m driving.’
    They looked at my face and obeyed, while I askedthe gate constable the way. I saw Maslow standing on the lawn watching us go. He didn’t wave either.
    It was the remains of, after all. The Reverend Henry Swan was dead on arrival. A shapely receptionist told us this, sounding really quite pleased everything had gone according to the book.
    ‘DOA,’ she explained, showing us the admissions list. ‘Do you wish to see the deceased?’
    ‘No.’ I halted. ‘Oh. Can you give a message to Inspector Maslow? He’ll be along shortly, when he can be bothered.’
    ‘Certainly,’ she said with pencil poised, sixty-five inches of syrup between two pearl earrings.
    The message is that I want an explanation. And to be sharp about it.’
    ‘And whom shall I say . . .?’
    ‘Tell him Lovejoy.’ I walked out.
    Martha Cookson was being accompanied to the police car. Her back had that brave look. No sign of Dolly. I watched her go. Sandy and Mel climbed silently in.
    I can remember Sandy sobbing in the back. Just as well he wasn’t driving. I can remember Mel saying with relish that anyway he’d told that awful bitch of a receptionist her nails were a
mess
and her twinset didn’t
match
, so there. I had the feeling it was somehow supposed to be a compassionate gesture. I can remember George doing his night round grandly stepping forward and holding up his hand at the chapel, and I can remember driving past without a word.
    I got out at my gate.
    ‘I appreciate your help,’ I told the silent couple. ‘I’msorry it was such a shambles. I’ll, er, do your scan at the weekend. All right?’ Mel drew breath to speak again but finally said nothing.
    As Sandy, red-eyed and still catching his breath, turned the car I asked one last favour.
    ‘Should you happen to see George pedalling this way,’ I said kindly, ‘persuade him to go home. If he comes knocking I’ll break his legs. ‘Night.’
    I went inside and shut the door.

Chapter 7
    I THOUGHT A lot next day. Now, antiques is a very rough game. Let me explain. .
    Once upon a foetid hot day in 1880, a daring young Captain rode out near Kabul and performed a heroic rescue of three merchants and certain important bits of their baggage from a fierce and marauding band of brigands. A brave lad. But the point is that he got nothing out of it, which is especially narking when you realize that inside those bags nestled part of the hitherto fabulous Oxus Treasure, almost priceless. Alas, the Captain never got a rupee. There’s a lesson hidden in there, fans.
    Don’t you try telling me that virtue is or has its own reward because it’s not and it hasn’t. Virtue has a sickening habit of breeding poverty and oppression. Everybody else benefits except the virtuous.
    I’m telling you all this because the Oxus Treasure – nowadays tantalizingly arrayed in the British Museum – is a typical instance of treasure-troving. Get the moral? Most treasure’s in a minefield of one sort or another. And