Firefly Gadroon by Jonathan Gash

least.
    ‘Nonsense,’ she said firmly. Odd, but she was still smiling. My spirits bottomed out. ‘It was quite deliberate, Lovejoy. Admit it. Now, before we go any further, sherry?’
    Dolly had guessed right, with a woman’s sixth sense for social encounters. This was no Woody’s Bar. A man dressed like the Prime Minister came out with a lovely gadrooned tray, only Edwardian and therefore not properly antique but it brought tears to my eyes.
    ‘Is he a butler?’ I whispered as the bloke receded. He’d left the tray for us on a wrought-iron garden table.
    ‘Yes,’ she whispered, amused.
    I was impressed. I’d never seen one before. I’d felt like kneeling. The sherry was in a sherry decanter, too. I’d never seen that before, either. And a silver tray really used, not just salted away for investment. No wonder Dolly hadscarpered. Maybe I should have stayed with her and had another snog in a lay-by.
    Forces seemed suddenly too large to handle. Out of control, I asked dejectedly, ‘Will you turn me in?’
    ‘Certainly not.’ She invited me to pour while I thought, thank God for that. The glasses were modern, but the silver-mounted decanter screamed London and genuine. Typical work of the Lias family, now prohibitively priced. They’re easy to spot because there seem so many letter ‘L’s in the hallmark. John and Henry Lias were right characters . . . Mrs Hepplestone caught me smiling and joined in.
    ‘Er, nice decanter,’ I said feebly.
    ‘Thank you.’ She was doing the woman’s trick of seeming cool while secretly screaming with laughter. I could tell.
    A gardener had lit a bonfire nearby. You can smell wood smoke even upwind. Odd, that. I glanced covertly at the bird while the fire crackled. Stylish, forty-five give or take an hour. Still knitting. Maybe I was expected to make conversation.
    ‘Er, sorry about your, er, chauffeur, missus,’ I tried.
    ‘Think nothing of it, Lovejoy. I quite understand.’
    Then what was I here for? ‘You going to tell me off?’
    ‘No.’ Knitting down now, loins girded for the crunch. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, Lovejoy. I’m unused to . . . your circle.’
    Well, I was unused to hers. I forgave.
    ‘The fact is that I was extremely discountenanced when I learned of your – deception – over the advertisement. As discountenanced as you probably felt on being exposed.’ She smiled to take the sting out of her remark. I’d felt discountenanced all right, whatever that meant. ‘But you are very clearly a professional at your trade.’
    ‘Well . . .’ I shrugged.
    ‘Everybody seems to know you, Lovejoy.’
    ‘They do?’ This conversation was getting out of hand, like the gardener’s fire over among the bushes. Too dry. Not enough rain.
    ‘I made enquiries, Lovejoy.’ She invited me to pour more sherry for myself. ‘So I shall forgive you the chauffeur and the advertisement, and you shall do a simple task for me.’
    Typical of a woman, that bit. I gazed about. Beyond the gardens a pair of huge lumbering horses were trotting, trailing an iron thing while two blokes marked the ground with white-painted pegs. Tractors clattered in the background. Maybe she wanted me to drive a tractor a day or two.
    She laughed and shook her head. ‘No. Nothing to do with my driving teams, Lovejoy.’ She made a face. Something rankled with her, and out it came. ‘Mind you, you couldn’t possibly do worse than my own men. We lose the competition every year to the Wainwrights – ever since that new blacksmith joined them, wretched man.’ Probably Claude, from our village.
    ‘Then how simple?’ I asked shrewdly, not wanting to get involved in the county set’s social wars.
    ‘For an antiques divvie – is that the word? – elementary.’
    I brightened. Antiques. ‘A valuation?’
    ‘No. I want you to open a little cage for me, please.’ She saw my expression go a bit odd because she cut in hastily, ‘Not a true antique, I must confess. My husband made it.