Moonspender by Jonathan Gash Read Free Book Online

trick with a
piece of early Wedgwood.
    "Unbelievable, these days," Geoffrey was saying as I
helped him over a stile. He has these feet. "Stupid sod."
    "Raymond's daft. Won't be told," I agreed. "Want a
rest?"
    "No, ta," he panted, hobbling and leaning on me, though
I was the one who'd been cavalried . "He'll get
six months, Lovejoy. Mark my words."
    "Stroll on," I mourned. Three of us—me. Big Frank and
Margaret Dainty—had clubbed together to finance good old Raymond's escapade. If
he got clinked, we'd be responsible for his antique shop until they released
him. Unwritten and tiresome rules of our hopeless game. I'd known Raymond
hadn't the brains to pull it off, but he's Margaret's cousin and you know
women.
    Geoffrey halted, mopped the interior of his cavernous helmet.
"We're here, Lovejoy. In you go."
    Surprised, I stared at the great glass edifice projecting from the
lovely old mansion house's side. It was almost an exact shoebox shape, an
aluminum-framed slab erected by Neanderthals. It was labeled Modem Farm Centre
Restaurant in simulated microdot typeface, red on gold. "Hell fire,
Geoffrey. Do I have to?"
    "Good morning, Lovejoy," said this lady, smiling from
the French windows, so I went in and left Geoffrey to the mercy of his feet.
"So you're the unspeakable lout who assaulted Christopher?" Unspeakable
after all, note.
    "Look, missus," I said uneasily. "I can come back.
I don't mind leaving it—"
    "Do stay. I need you. Like our new place?"
    She led me through a forest of tubular steel tables, red plastic,
and unusable slump chairs designed to immobilize the unwary. Flowers looked
ashamed in intense blue slit glass vases, Czechoslovakia's idea of art.
Dangling wicker baskets marauded on the ceiling, drooping orange blossoms
trying to escape. The whole place had an air of a travelers' Gothic, dreadful.
I just made the office without retching. I'd give twice a lot for ten minutes
of her, but not for her horrible restaurant. Instantly I knew what was wrong:
She'd hired an expert.
    "Candice told me all about it," she said, lighting a
cigarette. She didn't need me. She needed Sandy and Mel, because they could
make this ghastly clinical restaurant look really homely, except Sandy'd scream and Mel'd get one
of his famous heads.
    "Oh, aye." My tone must have told her I'd been the
victim of many such impartial reports. Unexpectedly she gave a broad infectious
smile, and suddenly I liked her.
    She had a kind of tooled elegance some women call grace. Not Mrs.
Ryan's vibrant showiness, but a precision-made look that announced: I'm still
trendier than anybody. I'm not much up on the subject of women's garb, yet all
the signs of wealth were there: the strap-round yeoman boots in pricey leather,
the russet worsted skirt, bishop-sleeve silk blouse. Pearls genuine;
surprisingly, no rings. Even so, you wouldn't get much change here from a quid.
    "I'm Suzanne York," this elegance said. "Thank you
for broaching the defenses. Christopher assumes the estate's already his."
    Hello, I thought, heart sinking. The dreaded inheritance bit. When
property, by some miracle, is being kept out of the taxman's hands, it's never
anything but trouble. Women always find my expression a giveaway. She quickly
added, "Well, Lovejoy. My husband's passed on. Raising my niece is a
problem, a very costly one." "The hounds expensive?" I asked.
"Your butler poor?" "Don't start that." She sighed and
crossed her legs, picking a tobacco flake off her tongue. "Major Bentham
says the hounds will generate interest among the county set, who'll flock to my
new restaurant." She eyed me. "You like it?"
    "Horrible, love."
    She took it on the chin. "Yes, well. Just as well you're not
likely to frequent the place, isn't it?"
    Touché. "Lady. The, er, reason—"
    "And in any case," she said, temper rising, "the
best restaurant designers in London—"
    "It's great," I cut in hastily. "That's what I
meant." After all, anyone who builds a glass and tin shoebox with