by Roz Goldie
He stood up and offered his hand, “Mr Hughes, I am dismissing this complaint and any reference to this shall be expunged from the record.”
Sandy shook his hand with a firm grasp. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much indeed! I am extremely grateful.” He cleared his throat, adding, “And mightily relieved, to be candid.”
Sandy Hughes nodded to Reynolds and was leaving the room when he heard the Dean saying to Reynolds – in a voice that was clearly meant to be audible, “That bloody Taunter woman!”
Sandy skipped boyishly down the corridor and ran at full speed across the quad. He was ecstatic – he’d been acquitted without a stain on his record! The heavy cloud had been lifted after the entire summer.
* * *
Jack was sitting reading the letter from his father, tears streaming down his face – his thoughts far from the vicissitudes of keeping the peace.
The letter had come through the circuitous route that is the Italian Postal Service, some ten days after it had been written and he suspected its contents as soon as it arrived.
Giacomo had not been explicit, but had hinted that George Summers was ready to meet his maker and from this, Jack felt sure that his father had enlisted some help.
He could not bear to re-read the compassionate and paternal words again, now that he had got the facts.
George Summers had a serious complaint, but it was not cancer. His specialist had identified the condition Alzheimer’s disease just before the preceding Christmas. Over the spring, the disease had taken its course more rapidly than the prognosis had estimated, so George put his affairs in order before leaving for his last stay in Italy.
Jack had sobbed aloud when he read the last words his father had written to him. “I didn’t want to compromise you, Jack. Not only because of your job, but because it is an enormous burden that no parent should put on their child – both moral and legal. I hope you will forgive me. I have always loved you much more than my gruff exterior may have shown.”
George Summers had known Antonio Breganza would help him get the pharmaceutical answer to his problems and that Giacomo and Lucia would take care of Jack when the time came for his funeral. He had said that by the time Jack got the letter, he would have met Giacomo and Lucia and that they would have smoothed his path in making the necessary arrangements – as indeed they had. Lucia’s father had taken on the task of procuring the most effective concoction of drugs without any explicit mention to his son-in-law, but with the tacit agreement of Giacomo, Lucia and of course, George himself.
The old men had gone to a local trattoria, at one time a hunting lodge and fed on wild boar, pasta and duck that final evening. Antonio sat with George in his private apartment in the villa, where he was ending his last stay. They drank grappa and toasted each other.
Without tears or obvious emotion, George drank his preparation and they embraced warmly before George Summers lay down on his bed. Antonio sat for the few minutes it took his good friend to fall into his eternal sleep. He rose and left the villa, telling the housekeeper he would return at 6 in the morning – informing her that his friend had given strict instructions not to be disturbed before that time.
It was Antonio Breganza who found the body of George Summers, looking peaceful. He wept bitterly and said a prayer for his departed friend of nearly half a century. Having washed his face in the adjoining bathroom, he composed himself to make the call that Giacomo knew to expect.
Certificates were signed, payments and duties paid, with all the alacrity that came with Giacomo’s professional status and the high social standing in which Antonio Breganza was held. Jack Summers would arrive at Pisa Airport the following evening.
Now in the cold light of day, with a chilly mist rising from the River Lagan, Jack thought of his father – whose ashes lay buried under a tree, in the warmth of the Tuscan hills – and was glad that he had chosen to die in Italy. He felt utterly bereft with a loneliness that was physically painful. He hugged his stomach and groaned.
* * *
Not far from the City Hall, Veronica was seated, shrouded in a hairdresser’s blouson in front of a large, bevelled mirror, looking glum.
“Now, Veronica, don’t fret. All you need is a trim and a tinge of colour and you’ll be fine,” Desmond soothed. “You didn’t expect the last cut to survive for months, did you?”
“No, it’s just that it has suddenly been a bad-hair day every day!” She still had a premonition of some ominous event – and still had not rational way of explaining this foreboding.
As Sandy came in beaming, he shouted, “I’m off the hook! The old witch didn’t even show up!”
“Tell all!” Desmond squealed in delight.
Sandy described Eliza’s absence, his presentation of the facts and his exoneration in as much detail as he could manage to fit into his dramatic narration of the morning’s short-lived events. “And as I left the Dean’s office, I clearly heard him say that bloody Taunter woman!”
“If the dear professor didn’t show up to the disciplinary, there must be something badly wrong – she’s a spiteful cow!” Desmond declared with force.
Veronica frowned, “She was at home last night. I saw her light on just before dawn – and a strange man leaving her house a short time later. Why would she miss the meeting?”
“Well, Sandy is in the clear – his reputation unblemished! I am happy to settle for that – who cares why that ghastly woman failed to show?”
* * *
Margaret Beightin did not have to wait long for news of the availability of a le Brocquy painting. Frederick Stewart texted her a grovelling message.
My dear Lady Beightin, you will be pleased to know that I will be in possession of a le Brocquy within the next 24 hours. As the priority client, I wanted to inform you immediately and offer you a viewing at your convenience.
Margaret snorted, laughing out loud, “Do I seem the sort of person who wants to meet in a toilet?”
The text continued. In addition, I am assured that there are also works by John Luke and William Conor and I will reserve you a first viewing of these also, if that is your wish. Sincerely, Frederick Stewart.
Knowing that a le Brocquy painting was worth considerably more than a Luke or a Conor, she considered whether it was worth pursuing the works of other great artists. However, she decided that showing a muted interest might be prudent. There might be no connection, but it seemed rather a coincidence that these art works all surfaced at the same gallery simultaneously.
Before making plans for the viewing, Margaret wanted to talk to Veronica, about this and the matter of her friend’s living arrangements. While she understood that the temporary room was a stopgap, Margaret felt it was a precarious and quite unsuitable lifestyle – and Veronica was a person who needed security at this juncture. And she did miss the regular visits and collusion with her pal in unearthing criminal complicity – in their exclusive friendship. Anyway, Margaret wanted help with the mystery of the paintings – as she saw it.
Lady Margaret Beightin was regarded by her wealthy, extended family as poor, lacking her own family and in need of their kind support. Her late cousin had left Margaret her cottage just outside Glenbannock. She was somewhat offended at manner in which this bequeath was made and the solicitor’s condescension at the reading of the will. Swallowing her pride, only because she detested these relatives and wished to avoid a vulgar contretemps, she had nodded and thanked the assembled group, before hurrying off, silently cursing their misguided efforts. In retrospect, some weeks later, she felt she could make use of the property by renting it to Veronica for a small amount until her friend decided on a permanent and more appropriate residence.
Since she felt Veronica might be offended by an offer of charity, Lady Beightin was careful in presenting her proposition in an email.
“Veronica, I have taken possession of a cottage – left to me by a cousin – and need time to decide what I shall do with the property. It is just outside the village. As I do
not want the place lying empty, would you consider taking it temporarily on for a modest rent? Since I am asking a favour of you, I am sending my proposal by email so that you can turn it down by return if the idea does not appeal to you. However, if you are interested, I am picking up the keys this afternoon and can let you have a look when you have time. Meantime, the mystery of the paintings is unfolding – will tell you all when we next meet. Yours Aye, Margaret.”
She pressed the send button, hoping that her friend would take up the offer and abandon her temporary and utterly unsuitable lodgings.
* * *
Sir John Colliers had taken possession of the five paintings early that morning. Posing as his agent, a cosmetically altered Leo Richards arrived at the Collier home by taxi and presented himself as Peter Saunders. Colliers did not recognise Richards now that his face was smoothed by Botox, his hair dyed, eye colour changed with contact lenses and his height increased by built-up shoes. Although the voice was the same, the contrivance of a thick Scots accent disguised that fact.
At a deliberately early hour, just as dawn was breaking, Colliers escorted Richards into his study. “Mr Saunders, you are a welcome guest!” He was flushed with pride and exhilarated at the prospect of getting a buyer for the le Brocquy immediately. He calculated that even with the commission for Stewart, he would almost double his money.
Richards set the heavy, cloth-wrapped package on Colliers’ desk. He calculated that he would make a small fortune from selling the le Brocquy and profit from the fake Luke and Conor paintings.
Colliers removed the packaging from the bundle, revealing five paintings, each separately bubble-wrapped. He clipped the wrapping carefully so he could inspect each one in detail – for which purpose he had a large magnifying glass. Satisfied that he was examining genuine art works, he smiled, turning to the man he believed to be Peter Saunders. “Fine! Now I believe that the deposit has been cashed and the remainder will be in Mr Richards’ hands within a day.”
“He will be pleased to hear that, Sir John.” Richards was excessively polite, playing to Colliers’ egotism. “Is there anything else that you require?”
“No, I have the documentation – which has been scrutinised to my satisfaction.”
Richards nodded and slightly bowed his head to acknowledge his host’s superiority.
“Then, I think the transaction is complete!” Colliers was eager to see the back of his guest and stood up. “Is your taxi waiting?”
“Yes, Sir John. I am on my way to the airport.”
Colliers offered his hand and Richards feigned a limp grasp in response.
“Well, goodbye, and give my regards to Leo!” Sir John Colliers was a very happy man at that moment. He watched Richards’ taxi pull away from his home as dawn broke.
* * *
Veronica had left Curl up and Dye quite delighted with Desmond’s handiwork but still preoccupied by what might have happened to Eliza Taunter. Her failure to turn up at the disciplinary hearing was very out of character. However, she was due to meet up with Barry Doyle and did not have time to follow her intuition.
Barry was in the Golden Palace, chatting with Bertie Norton when she arrived.
“Veronica! You have been at Desmond’s and look fabulous,” Bertie squealed with affectation.
“Thanks, Bertie. It’s worth every penny just for your flattery!” She smiled fondly at the young man, who had become her friend by accident more than design. Veronica was grateful for the genuine affection many of the gay set in the Golden Palace showed her.
“So, Sandy got off those trumped up charges against him!” Bertie had seen the tweet and all the details of the student’s encounter with the Dean that morning – except for mention of the Dean’s comment on Professor Taunter. Sandy was judiciously on social media on matters that might come back to bite him.
“Yes, indeed. I know she was at home last night – her light was on – so I can’t imagine why she didn’t attend. I mean, it was she who set the whole thing up!”
Conversation moved on to the Barry Doyle Show and the latest audience figures.
“We hit all targets. Willie Jackson is gutted!” Barry laughed. “He doesn’t know how much leaks out of his office.”
“I have a feature on adoption that might interest you. Have a listen.” Veronica pushed the ‘play’ button on her laptop.
“Veronica, that’s quite a story!” Barry enjoyed working with her. “And to think what I used to say about your production!”
“Let’s not. We are doing fine now,” she teased him. “So you are happy to run with this?”
“Oh, yes. Very happy. Where did you unearth this lad?” Barry was used to Veronica following his leads and contacts for features and they both enjoyed the results of the network of the gay community and their many supporters, relatives and associates.
“Pure luck, as it happens.” Veronica was absolutely honest with Barry Doyle, as this was the basis of their working relationship. With others, she would dissemble or tell whopping, great lies if the need arose, but not with Barry.
The story was simple but intriguing. It concerned an adopted boy, now an adult, who had discovered he was the son of a bishop and mothered by the woman in the couple, who adopted him. The young man, using the pseudonym ‘John’, found out by sheer accident, after his mother’s death, when he came across a photograph of his adopted mother and the bishop.
“Why would the bishop hide the fact? He’s an Anglican! He has no duty of celibacy. He wasn’t even married!” Barry asked with genuine incredulity.
“And how could the mother have adopted her own child – unless there was some serious deception and considerable assistance from the adoption and social services!” Veronica was more intrigued by what must have been systemic corruption – for she was convinced the woman must have used bribery to cover her tracks.
“If you think the social are bad here, just look at the record of English authorities when it comes to child protection!” the programme researcher, Emily Foster, added with rancour.
* * *
Creating Wild Fern Alley had been a collective effort by the residents of Montague Road, College Road and Crusaders’ Lane. Marianne and Thaddeus quickly engaged a wide range of people from the middle-aged married South African couple, retired academics, a serving judge, two gay male couples and a lady doctor who lived with her psychoanalyst sister. In the past few months, two new families moved into College Road and their children played with the many grandchildren, who were regular visitors. Around 20 of the residences housed students, most of whom were somehow surprised that Marianne had lived in the area when she had been a student – why would that common experience seem so strange to these young people? A senior conservationist lived beside Jack Summers and the adjoining house was occupied by a veteran feminist and her actor husband. The next home accommodated four young barristers. The corner was a block of flats that faced onto the unkempt garden of Mrs Wilson, a widow of 84.
It was Mrs Wilson who was most upset by the appearance of the three landlords Cobbles, McVeigh and O’Doherty. She was afraid that they would all be taken back to the days when the Alley was the haunt of drug dealers and teenage prostitution.
“Will we have to put back all the seating and plants? It is so peaceful now – and I like to hear the children playing in the alley.” Her voice was trembling, and there were tears in her eyes.
“Not if I have anything to do with it, Mrs Wilson!” Marianne was becoming increasingly angry with the opposition from the property owners – which seemed to have no reasonable basis, but was undermining the entire project.
* * *
Veronica had spent a lot of time with the feature on ‘John’ and edited the lengthy interview with help from Andrew Simpson after he had officially finished his shift – saying she was the only producer who could tempt him into unpaid overtime.
“This is another brilliant piece, Veronica.” Her favourite and the most competent of the audio engineers willingly gav
e up his own time to work with her and did not expect the full credit that she always gave. Veronica was still feeling inadequate in the world of digital recording and broadcasting.
“Thanks. Yes, I think it will work well. ‘John’ is very articulate about his feelings and he comes across as honest – which never fails to hit the mark.” She was pleased with the finished package. “I do appreciate your staying on Andrew. It wasn’t a rushed job, but it really makes my life a lot easier.”
“To be honest, I have had so much rubbish to deal with today that it has been quite therapeutic, my dear,” he smiled, nodded and rose to leave the editing suite.
“Thanks again.”
Veronica looked at her watch, knowing it must be late, as her stomach was rumbling. She took out a chocolate bar from her handbag and gobbled it down quickly. Still, she needed proper food! On her way back to what she now called ‘home’, she stopped for a quick meal in Botanic Avenue. Every bite was divine and her temperament was restored to good humour within minutes.
By the time she returned to Montague Road, the light was fading. The autumn nights were drawing in and the air was cold. Veronica Pilchard thought about Margaret Beightin’s proposal. Clearly, it was phrased to disguise her good friend’s charitable intention. Despite all her independence and self-sufficiency, she admitted that it was a gracious offer and one it would be churlish to reject. Nevertheless, Veronica was enjoying city life, even though her room was now packed with new possessions. She was not a minimalist sort of person. She resolved to have a look at the cottage and decide then, although the offer would not have been made unless the place was habitable. She’d let Margaret know this evening and thank her.