Read Online The Stone Wife by Peter Lovesey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Lovesey
Ads: Link
a straight nose with a strong bridge and a moustache and beard trimmed at the edges to leave the side of his face clear of whiskers. A modern face, intelligent and with a sense of destiny. If you want to know more about me , the poet seemed to be saying, you’ll have to work harder than this. I don’t give up my secrets easily .
“I can assure you, gentlemen,” Poke added, “that John Gildersleeve knew what Chaucer looked like. He was the leading authority in this country and probably the world on portraits of the poet. A few years ago he was asked by the National Portrait Gallery to authenticate a newly discovered drawing said to have been of Chaucer. They were proposing to buy it for some ridiculous amount. He was able to demonstrate that it was of the poet’s son, Thomas, and thus saved the gallery a great deal of money.”
“I hope they rewarded him.”
“I’ve no idea. He didn’t discuss it with me, but the story was in the national press. The man trying to sell the drawing had some hard things to say. His own reputation as an art dealer was seriously dented.”
“I’m surprised Professor Gildersleeve didn’t discuss it with you. You obviously know about these things.”
“We only spoke when it was absolutely necessary.”
The notion of these two academics obliged to work closely together, yet unwilling to communicate, was puzzling Diamond. Pure chemistry—or had there been some issue between them?
Halliwell said in an awed tone from in front of a wall of books, “Do you think the professor read all of these?”
“Some people still possess books,” Dr. Poke said. His own collection was pathetic by comparison. “Others store them electronically.”
“And others nick them from the library,” Diamond said, taking one down and confirming what he’d suspected from the lettering on the spine by opening it at a date-sheet headed Reading Public Library. It was a life of Chaucer by an American. He thumbed through the pages and found a chronology of the significant events in Chaucer’s life. “This may be helpful.” But presently he said, “Three pages of dates and places and not a mention of the West Country.”
“We can’t expect to strike gold the first time,” Halliwell said.
“How true,” Poke said. He selected a book and turned to the index with obvious confidence of finding what he was looking for.
Diamond went over to the desk and switched on the computer. He was no expert, but he knew the basics these days and after the condescending remark about e-books he intended to demonstrate that he wasn’t out of the Stone Age.
“Should you be doing that?” Poke asked. “It seems disrespectful.”
“He isn’t going to object,” Diamond said. “We’ll be taking it with us, anyway.”
He accessed the emails. A check of the inbox revealed little of interest. It seemed to be monopolised by online booksellers.
“Found it,” Poke said, looking up from the book in his hand. “Towards the end of his life Chaucer was named as deputy forester of Petherton Park in Somerset.”
“ Forester ?”
“Deputy. I expect it was a sinecure,” Poke said. “A way of thanking him for services rendered to the king. He completed diplomatic missions to France and Italy and he was a seniorcivil servant, the clerk of the king’s works, with responsibility for the construction and repair of numerous buildings, including all the royal palaces.”
“The Bernie Wefers of his day.”
Poke wasn’t amused. “Hardly. In case you were wondering, I doubt very much whether the clerk of the king’s works practised tree surgery as well.” He raised a finger. “It’s come back to me now. Some years ago, John Gildersleeve spent a whole summer down there under canvas with a group of students on an abortive excavation of a house said to have been owned by Chaucer.”
“Abortive?”
“They found absolutely nothing. He became a laughing stock. I doubt if he ever got over it.”
“This might explain
“I can assure you, gentlemen,” Poke added, “that John Gildersleeve knew what Chaucer looked like. He was the leading authority in this country and probably the world on portraits of the poet. A few years ago he was asked by the National Portrait Gallery to authenticate a newly discovered drawing said to have been of Chaucer. They were proposing to buy it for some ridiculous amount. He was able to demonstrate that it was of the poet’s son, Thomas, and thus saved the gallery a great deal of money.”
“I hope they rewarded him.”
“I’ve no idea. He didn’t discuss it with me, but the story was in the national press. The man trying to sell the drawing had some hard things to say. His own reputation as an art dealer was seriously dented.”
“I’m surprised Professor Gildersleeve didn’t discuss it with you. You obviously know about these things.”
“We only spoke when it was absolutely necessary.”
The notion of these two academics obliged to work closely together, yet unwilling to communicate, was puzzling Diamond. Pure chemistry—or had there been some issue between them?
Halliwell said in an awed tone from in front of a wall of books, “Do you think the professor read all of these?”
“Some people still possess books,” Dr. Poke said. His own collection was pathetic by comparison. “Others store them electronically.”
“And others nick them from the library,” Diamond said, taking one down and confirming what he’d suspected from the lettering on the spine by opening it at a date-sheet headed Reading Public Library. It was a life of Chaucer by an American. He thumbed through the pages and found a chronology of the significant events in Chaucer’s life. “This may be helpful.” But presently he said, “Three pages of dates and places and not a mention of the West Country.”
“We can’t expect to strike gold the first time,” Halliwell said.
“How true,” Poke said. He selected a book and turned to the index with obvious confidence of finding what he was looking for.
Diamond went over to the desk and switched on the computer. He was no expert, but he knew the basics these days and after the condescending remark about e-books he intended to demonstrate that he wasn’t out of the Stone Age.
“Should you be doing that?” Poke asked. “It seems disrespectful.”
“He isn’t going to object,” Diamond said. “We’ll be taking it with us, anyway.”
He accessed the emails. A check of the inbox revealed little of interest. It seemed to be monopolised by online booksellers.
“Found it,” Poke said, looking up from the book in his hand. “Towards the end of his life Chaucer was named as deputy forester of Petherton Park in Somerset.”
“ Forester ?”
“Deputy. I expect it was a sinecure,” Poke said. “A way of thanking him for services rendered to the king. He completed diplomatic missions to France and Italy and he was a seniorcivil servant, the clerk of the king’s works, with responsibility for the construction and repair of numerous buildings, including all the royal palaces.”
“The Bernie Wefers of his day.”
Poke wasn’t amused. “Hardly. In case you were wondering, I doubt very much whether the clerk of the king’s works practised tree surgery as well.” He raised a finger. “It’s come back to me now. Some years ago, John Gildersleeve spent a whole summer down there under canvas with a group of students on an abortive excavation of a house said to have been owned by Chaucer.”
“Abortive?”
“They found absolutely nothing. He became a laughing stock. I doubt if he ever got over it.”
“This might explain
Similar Books
