By Death Possessed

by Roger Ormerod

  After a minute or two we heard the approaching clack of steel-tipped heels. The door opened without a creak. The man staring at us was tall, thin, in his fifties, bald, and wearing a black butler’s jacket with too much spare material around the chest. He said nothing. We failed to impress.

  ‘We would like to see Mr Coombe,’ I told him.

  ‘He doesn’t see visitors.’

  ‘There’s something I’d like to show him.’

  Bushy eyebrows were raised. He watched my hand reaching towards the bulky shape in the side pocket of my anorak, and his eyes changed. The door slammed shut. We heard his heels retreating, steadily, unhurriedly.

  I banged again. The heels retreated. Once more. Still the heels. Again. The heels stopped. Finally, I gave it a regular tattoo. The heels began to approach.

  By this time I’d decided what had worried him. Renfrew Coombe had enemies, undoubtedly. The package in my pocket was suspect. This time I was prepared, and had one of my six-by-fours ready in my hand. The door opened. His right hand was behind it. I held up the print.

  ‘Show him this and he’ll see us.’

  ‘Bugger off.’

  ‘If you don’t, I’ll send it by post, and he’ll be looking for another flunkey.’

  He eyed me with venom, then, as it seemed innocuous, he reached out a tentative hand. I released the print. The door closed. The heels retreated.

  We walked round the courtyard, stretching our legs after the long journey. The moss was slimy and the flags uneven.

  ‘You think he’ll see us?’ she asked.

  ‘Daren’t refuse.’ But I wasn’t as confident as I sounded.

  ‘But will he let us leave again?’

  ‘We’ve got the paintings.’

  She wrapped her arms round herself and shuddered. ‘I can’t see we’ll gain anything.’

  ‘Maybe not. It’s worth a try, though.’

  We were over by the courtyard entrance when the door opened again. He stood there and crooked a finger. I put a hand to Margaret’s arm. Walk slowly, make him wait, show confidence.

  The inside was a surprise. I hadn’t expected the grand hall still to be rush-strewn, and perhaps the suits of armour would have been retired. But the full transformation was staggering. Only the walls and the windows were the originals. The echoing heels had been slamming hard on to black and white chequered marble. The walls had been treated to a pine coating, and the wide, black oak staircase, as it must have been at one time, was now decorated with chromium supports to a black leather-faced pair of hand rails. The full-width stair carpet was purple nylon. The scattered furniture was chrome and plastic. I wouldn’t have been surprised if each leaded diamond pane hadn’t been double-glazed. Large, white-painted radiators stood where the armour had mounted guard.

  It seemed inconceivable that a man with such anarchic taste could own a unique collection of art treasures that he coveted. But of course, he didn’t covet them. They were not there to be looked at and admired, they were there because other people would have liked to have them, and Coombe had them. That was their purpose.

  The steel heels led us past the staircase and through a door at the side. He waited until we were inside, received a signal from his boss, then the door closed behind him.

  This was Coombe’s personal office. It had received professional attention from a colour-blind interior decorator. Rugs too precious to be walked on hung against the naked stone of the walls, the spaces between them occupied by tall white columns, each bearing a goldfish bowl with a single exotic fish in it. The splendid proportions of the large and tall windows were ruined by low valances and net curtains dyed red. There were a lot of windows; it was a long, high-ceilinged room. At one end was a round fountain, into which the little boy tinkled endlessly away. He’d been lacquered pink. The wall-to-wall carpeting was one huge flow of white, like a snowfall. The desk too was white, though it had started its life in the study of one of the Louis. Chairs, cane and rush, stood around in negligent disorder. Only two chairs were comfortable, these being deep leather easy chairs with studded backs. In one sat a young, pale man with polished hair and a bored expression. In the other, not behind the desk, sat the man who must be Renfrew Coombe.

  By this time I had become resigned to failure. A man who could live in these surroundings could not be expected to have any appreciation of art or understanding of it. He wouldn’t know a Toulouse-Lautrec from an Aubrey Beardsley. It was on his personal knowledge that I was relying. My confidence sagged. He seemed to confirm my assessment by holding up the print and saying: ‘What’s this?’

  I walked forward. I was no longer aware of Margaret’s presence; perhaps she was stunned by the room. Standing in front of him, I answered: ‘It’s a print, a photograph of a painting I own.’

  It was then that I became aware that his was an orthopaedic chair. His feet rested on its extension, his back was moulded to its adjustable contours, as far as such a back could be manipulated. He was a gross man, whose fat had absorbed his outline to the point of inhibiting his movements. The hand holding the print almost engulfed it, the thumb obscuring most of the surface. His face was a pear, with the jowls resting on his shoulders. Whatever neck there had been was absorbed. No shirtmaker could have produced a collar that wouldn’t be ridiculous. He was wearing a white, polo-necked jumper.

  Angrily, he stared past the thumb at what was revealed. ‘So what?’ he barked, his voice deep and throaty.

  ‘It’s a Frederick Ashe. As the owner of the only ones in a private collection, you might be interested ... I thought.’

  ‘Tcha!’ he said in contempt, then he tore it across, across again, and tossed the pieces over his shoulder.

  The youngish man—I now realized he could have been forty—moved uneasily, then subsided again. In the corner of my eye I saw Margaret studying the manikin. She was keeping her options open.

  ‘Feel free,’ I said. ‘I have the negative as well as the canvas.’

  ‘When I buy, it’s at auction. Now get out of here.’

  Reaching over the chair arm, the young man had rescued the portions of my print. He hooked a low table towards him and jigsawed the pieces together, then he glanced up at me. His eyes, ice-blue, contained interest, and I knew that all was not lost.

  ‘There’s another eighty of them,’ I said, keeping my voice casual. ‘Eighty-one canvases in all. I’ve got photos of all of them. Want to see?’

  I drew out my packet slowly, so as not to trigger any violent reaction. I held it up. Coombe stared at me, then waved his hand. ‘Paul.’

  His assistant reached towards me, forcing me to go to him. Smiling, I slipped the set out of its envelope and handed them over.

  With the expertise of a card-sharp, he put them down on the table and fanned them out. Then, delicately with spatulate fingers, he edged each one sideways so that he had a full view, and moved along. Six of them he slid fractionally downwards. I barely noticed the action. Then he swept them together again, rose to his feet with athletic grace, and went over to his employer.

  There was whispering, and grunts in response, then Coombe said something and Paul walked with silent stealth from the room.

  We waited.

  Coombe was not an entertaining host. He interlocked his hands and placed them on his stomach, where they rested like a coil of hosepipe, and closed his eyes. I moved over to Margaret’s side. She glanced at me. Her eyes were dark, her cheeks pale.

  ‘A waste of time,’ she whispered.

  ‘I think not. He hires the brains, and Paul’s his curator.’

  She looked away, shuddered when her eyes fell on the fountain, and murmured: ‘I’ll scream if I don’t get out of here soon.’

  But it was a long wait, and she didn’t scream. Paul at last returned. He held the batch of prints in one neat block, and went directly to his employer. There was more whispering. I edged closer.

  At last Coombe raised his eyes. They were flat and empty. Paul, with a smirk, handed me the pack of pr
ints. I slid them into my pocket.

  ‘Right,’ said Coombe, rumbling aggressively. ‘So you’ve got eighty-one forgeries. Why should I be interested?’

  ‘They’re not forgeries.’

  He went on as though I hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ll take them off your hands. Eight thousand the lot. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘Why should you want them, if you think they’re forgeries?’

  That was a mistake. The hands uncurled and the fingers flexed, like dying snakes. His face was suffused with blood. Paul took my arm quickly.

  ‘Out!’ he said.

  We left. Margaret led the way. Paul stood in the hall and watched us on our trip to the door. A roar of fury sounded behind him, and he retreated, the door closing quietly.

  Steel-tips was waiting to see us out. He bowed mockingly. We left. I knew why Coombe wanted to relieve us of the canvases, forgeries or not. He could not risk them coming on the open market, and thus throwing doubt on the authenticity of his own. Even, perhaps, of demands coming from high places that his own should be inspected.

  I said: ‘Drive away slowly and keep going. Stop when we get the other side of the village.’

  This she did. By that time I’d confirmed what I suspected.

  I had, as was my normal practice, banged on the back of each print my rubber stamp, which includes all the details required to trace a negative in future. Such as the number in the batch. In this instance, I’d done a print from each negative, so that the prints were numbered simply 1 to 81. I now possessed 2 to 81, number one being in four pieces on the formica top of that low table.

  But they were no longer in exact order. Paul had paid special attention to the six he’d noticed. These six were now together at the bottom of the pile.

  ‘Got him!’ I said in triumph. ‘We now know he’s got all six of the Frederick Ashes. And we know which ones from the loft set are paired with his.’

  Margaret didn’t seem as pleased as I’d expected. ‘But we don’t know whether his are painted from right or left biased viewpoints of your six.’

  ‘But surely they must be the same as my original canvas, a right-hand viewpoint.’

  ‘Hmm!’ she said doubtfully. ‘But sometimes artists do more than one painting of something they like. Those six could’ve been picked out by that evil-looking young man just because they’re similar to the six Coombe has.’

  ‘You do take some convincing.’

  ‘And you, Tony? Are you convinced? Don’t forget, you’re as good as agreeing with me that the loft set are all Angelina Footes. I hadn’t noticed you agreeing with me lately.’

  I grimaced at her, changed it to a grin. ‘So we need to have another go at it. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Another go at Coombe? Heaven forbid!’

  ‘But don’t you see, we’ve now got something on him. We know he’s got those four stolen paintings.’

  ‘So?’ she asked, with no warmth.

  ‘We phone him. We put it to him that on this evidence the police could apply for a search warrant. In exchange for our silence, we demand that he should let us ... or me, if you like, and I’ll take photos ... let me, then, have access to his collection, and—’

  She jerked the car into violent movement. I shouted: ‘What the hell!’ But she was glancing at the rearview mirror.

  ‘There’s a car just come over the bridge,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to lose him.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘Don’t you realize what you’ve stirred up! And you talk about threatening such a man! He wants those canvases.’

  ‘Over my dead—’

  ‘If necessary,’ she said. ‘If necessary.’

  She set out to lose the other car. It was faster than the Volvo, and more powerful. But they didn’t stand a chance. Thugs have a fine regard for their own lives, but Margaret had none for ours.

  CHAPTER NINE

  In order to reach the village of Renfrew Coombe we had had to take the Porlock to Lynton coast road, and strike off south into Exmoor. After that, there had been only one route. This road, out on the moors, is about twelve feet wide, and you either follow it or bump along through the scrub. Closer to the coast the road is no wider, and tall hedgerows encroach very intimately. So when I say that Margaret set out to lose the car on our return journey, she could not do so until we were nearing Porlock, because they could afford to hang back, knowing she had no alternatives.

  But Porlock is approached by way of Porlock Hill, from this direction being downwards. The hill is steep, and it winds. Cyclists are advised to get off and walk, and the few escape roads—steep ramps of sand to slow you down—are signposted. They occur where the fall becomes 1 in 4, and always on a corner so tight that you can catch a glimpse of your own rear wheels as you take them. Most people tackle the whole thing at around 20, up or down. But Margaret had no patience for this sort of thing.

  She took it in second gear with the revs flying high, driving on brakes and throttle so that the whole three quarters of a mile was done in one screaming, wriggling dance round the bends. I didn’t think a Volvo Estate would do this sort of thing, but it did. Approaching the top of the hill, the car behind had closed up. Where he thought we might disappear to, except through Porlock and on to the Minehead road, I couldn’t imagine. He made the mistake of trying to match the Volvo, and we lost him at one of the escape roads, which he took, or nearly. It made an expensive noise behind us as we slowed through the village of Porlock.

  ‘Was that really necessary?’ I asked.

  ‘We daren’t let Coombe know where the paintings are.’

  ‘Oh!’ I said in dismay. She had prodded free a thought.

  She slowed even more, glancing sideways. ‘Oh what?’

  ‘My rubber stamp, the one I bang on the back of my proofs—it’s got my home address on it, and both my phone numbers.’

  She nodded. It was just what she might have expected. ‘Then you’ll have to keep away from your home.’

  ‘Didn’t intend going there.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But every time you come to my place you’ll have to make sure you’re not followed.’

  Life was becoming increasingly complicated. ‘Every time I come?’ I asked. ‘I thought you’d pretty well drained every drop of knowledge from the canvases.’

  She drove a mile before she replied. ‘We’ll see. We’ve got to discuss this.’

  Which we did, when we reached her place. Now that we knew which photos had attracted Paul’s attention, she could concentrate on those. She had never seen the two Ashes he owned legitimately, and the catalogues contained no more than a description. But she had certainly seen the other four, in the galleries from which they’d been stolen. As far as she could tell from memory, those four were now in the hands of Renfrew Coombe. If they were not, why had Paul shown such interest in pictures of canvases almost matching them?

  We had got back in time for a quick lunch, and were now sitting out in the sun on Margaret’s patio, which overhung the valley. I was feeling lazy, which made me uneasy. Lounging around in the middle of a working day felt strange. My disorientation increased. I could see this business hanging around forever.

  ‘There’s only one thing for it,’ I said at last. ‘We’ll go to see him again ...’

  ‘We will not.’

  ‘... or I’ll go to see him again, and say we—or I—believe that his Frederick Ashe paintings might not be genuine. The odd lie never does much harm. I’ll tell him that if I can see them, there’s a method of making sure. I wouldn’t tell him anything about the left and right viewpoint theory, but with a bit of luck he’ll be worried enough to let me take a peep—’

  ‘I forbid it.’

  ‘Forbid?’

  ‘It’s too dangerous for you.’

  I noticed that she’d now excluded herself. ‘I don’t see that.’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare to let you see inside his gallery.’

  ‘Paul could bring them out. Just his two legitimate ones would
be enough for what I want. I’d simply compare them with the photos, and confirm that they’re right viewpoint versions of the ones in the loft set. That’d make ’em the same as my original one.’

  Her lower lip tucked between her teeth, she turned and stared at me. ‘Promise me you wouldn’t go inside the gallery.’ Her eyes were very dark.

  ‘If you wish. I don’t see that it matters.’

  ‘Oh, you are slow! What does he know about you? You could be an undercover man from the Arts Section of Scotland Yard. You might see something that’d make you a dangerous liability.’

  ‘If he thought I was a policeman, he wouldn’t dare to touch me.’

  ‘All the same ...’

  She was flushed, her eyes moist and bright. I couldn’t understand her attitude. Was it concern for me? To be sure, we had a natural empathy for each other; we could bear to be in each other’s company without strain. Looking back, I realized that this was partly what had stood between Evelyn and myself. We had both had to work hard for a continuing domestic peace. Not so with Margaret. Our intimacy had grown rapidly, but I didn’t think it had developed to a position where she could be concerned deeply for my safety.

  At last she said simply: ‘I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘Because you now know enough about the paintings to stake your reputation that the eighty-one from the loft are not Frederick Ashes?’

  She looked away from me over her valley, then reached sideways to her cigarettes on the metal table between us. She spoke with her eyes still averted, so softly that at first I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly.

  ‘I know enough about that loft set to be certain of one thing. Nobody would ever dare to say they’re not by Frederick Ashe.’

  ‘Pardon ...’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Tony,’ she said sharply, snapping her head round, dragging the cigarette, still unlit, from her lips. ‘You know what I mean.’