by Roz Goldie
While a holiday romance was hardly a scandal, Margaret kept her own counsel on all matters of the heart concerning herself. The situation with Bill Adams was different. For one thing, Veronica knew him – although she suspected Bill’s unfavourable opinion, Veronica’s was fully reciprocated.
However, the priority for their chat was the obscurity of the source of the paintings in the Stewart Gallery.
“How lovely, Veronica! It’s just like old times!” Margaret greeted her friend warmly. “I take it everything is as it should be at the cottage?”
“It is, Margaret, but I am renting a place in Belfast. Living in a single room is best left as a short-lived pleasure. I have taken a garden flat on a short lease.” Veronica would have bitten out her tongue before admitting she had felt bullied and resentful towards Margaret. “So, thank you so much, but I shan’t be taking the cottage.”
Margaret served coffee, and they sat outside. Margaret showed no obvious sign of disappointment but disliked her friend’s ingratitude. Veronica did not smoke, although she wanted to. Leaving aside her frustration with Veronica and her preoccupation with Bill Adams, Margaret started by outlining her suspicions about the paintings Frederick Stewart was selling.
“I am not at all sure where they came from or if I am seeing too much into things, but my instinct tells me there is some fraud and my knowledge of Luke tells me that painting is a counterfeit,” she paused and nibbled at the fairy cake on her plate. “I do think the le Brocquy is genuine, however.”
“You were very impressive, Lady Beightin, at the viewing. You could have kept him going for hours – of course, I was running out of things to say.” Veronica finished her coffee sensing Margaret’s disapproval, but determined to ignore that for the time being.
“Colliers is mixed up in all this. Cressida told me the names of the artists – and they are exactly the same as those we saw. I must contact her and see if there is anything else she can tell us.”
“Us? What help do you think I can be?” Veronica was flabbergasted. “I am a total Philistine!”
“You are a first-class detective, my dear. All we need is some more information and the authentication from the National Gallery and then we can look into the matter further.”
“I don’t suppose you could push Stewart a bit harder about who is selling these pictures?”
“I could try, but he’d probably talk about privacy, discretion and client confidentiality – as if he were a doctor or a priest!” Margaret spat the words out, showing some frustration and an evident distaste for Frederick Stewart. “And these days, you would be amazed at how many people need to sell their precious works of art.”
“How are you going to get out of buying the le Brocquy? You don’t actually have that amount of money, do you?”
“Of course not, but his work is no longer attracting the same amounts. Last year, the price dropped by more than a third,” she paused, only now thinking about how she’d extricate herself from what Stewart believed was a certain deal. “I will just have to confess that I do not have such money, that I was captivated by it but cannot actually afford it.” She gave a feigned, prissy smile, prompting Veronica to laugh out loud – but warily, having been on the receiving end of her anger.
“Margaret, you should have been on the stage!”
“Speaking of stages, I was at a Chopin recital with Bill Adams last night.” She glanced to see Veronica’s reaction. Since there was not the customary grimace that came with mention of DCI Adams, she continued, “He announced a profound affection for me – the poor man was so flustered; I held his hand to comfort him.”
Stifling the urge to say she was surprised to hear Adams could harbour such sentiments for anyone, Veronica pursed her lips. “That’s a very delicate situation. I think you were very kind to him. Now, do you like him? Do you like him enough to take it further?” She was searching for a more demure turn of phrase than the words that immediately sprang to mind.
“He is a nice man, and I do enjoy his company.” She looked at her friend.
“Well, tell him that. Tell him you enjoy his company and would like to see him. If things take a turn for the romantic, so be it, but for the moment you feel, companionship is enough. How does that sound?”
“How gracefully you put it. Thank you, Veronica. I think that is a good approach. At this stage of my life, I don’t expect long-term romantic relationships.”
They both knew this did not solve the dilemma, but that it was a credible and careful ploy for the immediate future.
* * *
Nico organised a viewing of Seven Montague Road for the afternoon. Eager to please and anxious to get a sale, Mr Sells was early. Nico saw him from next door.
“Nonno, the estate agent is here. He is early, but shall we go now?”
“I think he can wait, Nico. We will go as arranged.” He smiled benevolently at his grandson. “You don’t want him to think you are so interested.”
“Oh, I have not shown any enthusiasm. I remember how you have always made transactions, and maybe I was too cool. Still, you are right. We will go in ten minutes.”
Nico appeared at the open door of No. 7 with Mario and Olivia and introduced them to Mr Sells.
“These are my grandparents, Mr Sells, Mario and Olivia Tebaldi.” As the estate agent held out his hand in greeting, Nico added, “They are keen to see the house, but they do not speak more than a little English.”
Handshakes were formally exchanged. Mario nodded and smiled at Mr Sells. Olivia eyed the man with obvious suspicion. Nico restrained himself, as he watched the pair enacting the same ritual he had seen in the markets around Poggiduomo many times. They were a great double act.
Where Mario looked at the structural features, Olivia looked at the light and space, carefully calculating how much work would be entailed in making the place habitable. Keith Sells cringed, as Mario used a butter knife from Marianne’s kitchen to test for rot in wooden window frames and skirting boards – but he said nothing.
Olivia inspected what furniture had not been disposed of without showing any sign of approval. Nico had decided that he would buy the house if he could negotiate a price he could afford. He kept an eye on Sells, who was nervously assessing Mario and Olivia – as he was certain they would be making the decision, and probably bankrolling the deposit. He was so wrong.
In less than 40 minutes, Mario and Olivia had seen all they needed, and announced that they were finished.
“Thank you, Mr Sells. I appreciate you accommodating my grandparents. As I am their only grandchild, they are concerned about how I make such a large decision.”
“Sells and Company has a mission statement, Doctor Tebaldi – nothing is too much trouble for a client. I am happy that you wanted a second viewing.”
Olivia shook her head, making Sells anxious once again.
“I shall discuss it with my grandparents and get back to you. Have you any other interested parties at the moment?” Nico imagined he could smell the salesman’s fear.
“No, not just at the moment. In fact, that may be to your benefit, Doctor Tebaldi!” He tried to sound enthusiastic.
“Then, I shall come back to you by the end of tomorrow, Mr Sells.”
They parted company and the three Tebaldis returned to the sunroom in No. 5 to go over the details.
Mario and Olivia were expressionless until they had closed the front door of Marianne’s house. Then, they both laughed aloud. Mario hugged his grandson. “You have learned a lot more than just bookish things, my dear Nico!”
“You would do well in any market!” Olivia added. “That man thinks we are going to buy the house – he was very anxious to please us!”
“So, you think it is a sound proposition?”
“It does not seem like the scene of such dreadful crimes, and it is a fine house,” Olivia pronounced.
“Indeed. If the price is good, it would be a fine investment,” Mario declared.
Nico was content with that. He woul
d broach the subject of their coming to live with him after a deal had been sealed.
* * *
Despite Cressida Colliers’ best efforts to conceal the bruising on her neck under makeup, it was apparent. Her face somehow hollowed out. Margaret was horrified when she caught sight of her in the Merchant Bistro. She approached the table, hastily setting her coat on a chair and sitting down.
“Cressida! What on earth has happened to you?” she whispered in horror.
“Scarlet had a fatal accident yesterday – killed by falling onto the mirror in our hall – it was broken in the fall.” Her voice was shaky and her hands trembling.
“Were you caught up in the fall?” Margaret asked.
“No, I found her lying in a pool of blood. John felt for a pulse, but there was none.”
“In that case, why have you got bruising on your neck?” Margaret was concerned because she immediately suspected Colliers had injured his wife.
“Oh, Margaret, I am so ashamed!” There were tears in Cressida’s eyes. “John was so very angry with me.” She sobbed quietly into a handkerchief.
“He did this?” Margaret could not hide her outrage. “What made him angry?” She felt a strong indignation course through her veins, and clenched her fists tightly.
“He found my gardening diary – I dropped it when I heard the crash and went downstairs to see what had happened. I had made a note of the painters I told you about.”
“Why would that annoy him? You only gave me three names.” Margaret was genuinely at a loss as to why the names of these artists would induce such fury in Colliers.
“Is that all I told you? It was my notes about the men with whom he dealt that seemed to enrage him. He said I was interfering with his business – and grilled me about whether I had talked to anyone about it.”
“And he hit you?” Margaret spat out the words.
“Several times but after the first blow, I felt no fear.” Cressida’s hands had stopped shaking and her voice was steady. “I have decided to leave him – though he doesn’t know that yet.”
“Good for you, Cressida. The man is a brute! And my door is always open – if you want to come to me at any time – day or night.” Margaret’s wrath was now replaced with compassion and delight that Cressida was not going to stay in her dreadful marriage.
“I now think there is something dubious about his business as he calls it. There must be something he wants desperately to hide.” Her voice resonated with a desire to hit back at him, “So what exactly did you write down? Can you remember in detail?” Margaret would willingly collude in a vendetta against this degenerate wife-beater!
“Not a lot – and John ripped out the pages and burned them. I listed the artists, which I told you about, and the names of the two men, who negotiated and delivered the paintings.”
“Aha! Then their names must be significant. What were they?”
“Leo Richards and Peter Saunders. The first negotiated the sale and the price and provided the documentation. The second man delivered the paintings.”
“Do you remember when he took possession of these paintings, by any chance?”
“It was at the end of September – the last Tuesday.” She sounded certain. “He was like a child in a sweet shop – so pleased with himself.”
“How did you get that information?”
“It was a comment you made about le Brocquy – though I believe you thought it went over my head.” As Margaret blushed in shame, Cressida continued, “I asked him to humour me and tell me what had made him so happy. He gave me a lecture about the artists, and I didn’t even have to ask for the names – he got carried away with his own patter.”
Margaret laughed out loud, “Cressida – my apologies for seeming to condescend – and my congratulations on your intelligent sleuthing!”
“Now, I could do with some strong coffee!” Cressida spoke in a light-hearted but determined tone.
* * *
George Summers had left money for his young friend and house-sitter, Nico. With that, and his prudent savings, there was enough for a modest deposit on Seven Montague Road. Good fortune had given him professional promotion and assured his finances for the immediate future. What Nico had not taken into account was the longer term – that was a risk that he now simply had to take.
Mario and Olivia did not take the return flight to Verona. Mario had a heart attack and was rushed to hospital the morning before they were due to depart.
Nico was supposed to be taking his first supervision session with a second-year doctoral student, but was needed as translator in the emergency room, where Olivia was distressed and unable to tell the medical team what they needed to know. He texted the young man, offering profound apologies and explaining his absence, with a promise to make up for this dereliction of duty. He added a few comments on student’s research and current write-up – which were complimentary on balance, but critical of the direction in which Professor Taunter had been pushing his work.
In the taxi on the way to the hospital, he got a response. “Nico. No probs. Can rearrange. We all know u will do a fine job. Thanx for compliments. So glad to have a new supervisor. If it helps, my father is a consultant cardiologist here. Say ‘hello’ for me. Jim Andrews.”
Mr Andrews was expecting Nico – Jim had texted him. “Ah, you must be the famous, Nico. We have stabilised your grandfather. You can see him later when we get him into a bed. Your grandmother is very distressed, so perhaps you could explain that he is not going to die and we can probably get him into shape with medication. There is a café on the first floor where you can get coffee, and I will ensure you are both brought up to see Mr Tebaldi as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, Mr Andrews. I will go to her now. And my apologies for missing Jim’s supervision session.”
“I happen to know that he is overjoyed to have you as a supervisor – your reputation precedes you, Doctor Tebaldi!” Jeff Andrews offered his hand, and Nico shook it with gratitude and relief.
Olivia was distressed in a way that emergency staff recognised. She was white, silent and stared in fear. She was not weeping.
“Nonna! The consultant says Nonno is going to be okay – he isn’t going to die. Let’s go and get some coffee and I will explain what is happening. Now take my arm,” he spoke softly, gently and with great care.
He spent the rest of the morning with his grandmother, and they spoke to Mario at midday.
“You gave us a scare Nonno, but the doctor assures me that you will recover.” Nico stood beside his grandmother, who was seated holding Mario’s hand and gently stroking it.
“Oh, Mario!” she sobbed at the sight of her man, who God had granted deliverance.
“Carissima. Calm yourself.” Mario whispered to reassure her. “I will be out of here soon. Now, you go back with Nico and I will sleep until this evening. You can come back then.”
Olivia blew her nose and straightened the scarf around her neck. She breathed in and rose steadily to her feet. She gave Mario a big grin, and said, “Now, you behave with all these beautiful nurses, my old man!”
“I will. Now, Nico, you finish that business.” His voice was hoarse, but still quite strong.
Olivia left the ward having composed herself and regained what she thought of as the correct dignity for an Italian in a foreign country. Nico felt his heart would burst with the strength of emotion – he was so grateful for the way things had turned out.
He accompanied Olivia back to Marianne’s, impatient to ensure that she could stay there for the time being. He also felt it was time to introduce the idea of them coming to live in Belfast with him. That would have to wait until they were together – even if that had to be in a hospital.
As he had promised, Nico contacted Mr Sells, explaining that his grandfather had just had a heart attack and that he wanted to make an agreement – as long as the price was right. Sells sensed the immediacy. “I am at your disposal, Doctor Tebaldi – at whatever time suits you.”
* * *
DCI Bill Adams was reluctant to accept Jack Summers’ letter of resignation at face value, and said so. “Jack, are you sure about this? I mean, you have just had a bereavement, and I don’t think this is the best time to be making such significant decisions,” he sighed. “You are a good detective – too good to just walk away from almost a lifetime of police work. Would you take some compassionate leave and keep your letter until you have had more time to think about it?”
“I’d prefer to leave the letter with you, sir, but I will take some leave.” He did not say that he was sure about resigning and his father’s death had simply precipitated a decision that he’d have come to anyway. “I’m not up to the job at the moment – though Gary McClure would cover for me. If I may, I’ll get back to you in a fortnight.”
“Fine, Jack. I do hope you will reconsider.” Adams nodded and clenched his jaw.
Jack left Donaghdubh Police Station with a sense of closure and the beginnings of elation. He had always suspected his father would have preferred him to have followed another career, and he was now going to do that. He looked up into the clear, blue sky, certain there was no heaven up there, but psychologically addressing his father. Jack was going to take another direction as of now.
* * *
Mario Tebaldi made as good a recovery as possible and, duly medicated, was discharged from hospital in a few days. He had spent some of that time considering Nico’s suggestion that he and Olivia come to live with him in Belfast – in the house he had bought. He returned to No. 5 Montague Road and a much happier Olivia.
As this was the first occasion that he had enough time to discuss the proposal in detail with his wife, he settled into an armchair in their room and began.