I stared at her dumbly.
‘You do!’ she cried. ‘We could put them on the market as Frederick Ashe canvases, and not one art expert anywhere would dare to dispute it.’
Then she spent quite a while getting the cigarette going, giving me time to absorb this new concept.
Where, now, was all her high-flown professional morality? At no time had there been any reason to question it, and in fact her probity had ruled every action she had taken. Now, all of this was to be jettisoned, was it? And why? In order to make a quick fortune for me and a fair commission for her, but mostly to secure her treasured acclaim for this remarkable artistic find! How could that be? I just couldn’t imagine her smiling at a gathering of her enthusiastic peers, when inside she would be squirming. Oh, the bitterness of the thought that she was betraying her trust as an international expert, she whose word was pristine truth!
‘Less,’ I said, ‘The six that’re duplicated in Coombe’s collection, and my single one.’
‘What?’
‘To prevent any backlash from Coombe, any protests, any awkward questions ... to play safe, there would have to be no duplicates.’
I’d confused her. ‘Yes ... of course,’ she said.
I shrugged. ‘Suits me, then. It’d save all the trouble of seeing him again.’
‘There’s that, too.’ She smiled. Though she tried to conceal the fact, there was relief in it. But there was not enough behind her eyes, no affection, no hint of passion, to make me accept that her relief was for me.
‘I really must catch up on my work, anyway,’ I went on casually. ‘I’ll spend another day at my photo-lab.’ I laughed. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll make sure I’m not followed. You can work out how you’re going to unload seventy-four of the canvases on to an innocent world.’
She grimaced. In spite of what she’d said, it was not a task she would enjoy. But during the rest of the day, she did much to reinforce the impression that her concern was for me personally. She became more affectionate and attentive. She, probed me about the details of my profession, and seemed fascinated. From her bedroom door she looked at me in a way not usually lavished on me, and throughout the night she protected me with her strong arms. I had no fears. It was no longer necessary to have future contact with Renfrew Coombe, and I was going to become a millionaire. Wasn’t I?
I regretted only that my recent incursions into the art world were turning me into a cynical bastard.
In the morning I covered what I was beginning to feel was my regular commuting run, and as usually happens when you’re overwhelmed by work, more commissions had arrived in the post. One of them was a lu-lu, the pictures for a brochure covering holidays in Norway, all expenses paid, plus a generous fee. The satisfaction this produced was slightly dimmed by the recollection that I was shortly to become a millionaire. I would be able to buy the travel firm! It was also undermined by the fact that it arrived by way of Evelyn, who had included another charming note.
Tony,
I need a settled address to which I can direct the serving of divorce proceedings. Of course, to claim desertion would be futile, after so short a time, so I have had a man follow you, and evidence of adultery is available. Please let me know whether service of the writ may be made at your business address, or at the home of Dr Margaret Dennis.
Your immediate reply will be appreciated.
P.S. Please do not claim that my address is still yours, as I have had the locks changed.
P.P.S. Aleric sends his regards.
E.
I threw it to the floor and stamped on it. The disaster it spelled out was not my divorce, but the fact that Margaret’s address was now known to a third party. It was dangerous. I went quickly into the darkroom, where I had my phone on the end of the bench, intending to call Margaret to warn her. It rang beneath my fingers and I snatched it up. If it was Evelyn ...
‘Mr Hine?’ A man’s voice, like dark brown velvet. Another commission? I unearthed my best voice.
‘Tony Hine speaking.’
‘Ah! Fine! This is Paul Mace. You’ll remember me, perhaps. At Renfrew Coombe.’
‘I remember you.’ I was cautious, no longer being particularly interested in what Coombe might have to offer.
‘Mr Coombe has been thinking about your proposition.’
‘I don’t remember making a proposition, I simply told him what I have.’
‘And which he would like to acquire.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Mr Mace, I own eighty-one Frederick Ashe canvases. These I intend to offer at auction, and your employer will no doubt put in a bid—’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘It’s you who doesn’t. Tell him I don’t intend to include the duplicates of the Ashes he now has—or believes he has. I don’t want to embarrass so important—’
‘Will you listen!’
I stopped. It had been difficult to maintain the formal style, anyway. Then I said: ‘I’m listening, but any offer under—’
‘He’s making no offer.’
‘No?’
‘I’ve been told to instruct you to bring all your canvases here and leave them for our examination, and possible destruction.’
‘Instruct me! Now listen here, you slimy little—’
‘We have your wife.’
‘Just listen ... you what?’
‘We are holding your wife here as a ... how shall I put it ... ? as guarantee of your sensible behaviour.’
I laughed. His timing had been perfect. I laughed, and he made clicking noises of disapproval with his tongue.
‘We shall hold her until—’ he began.
‘You can hold her for ever, as far as I’m concerned. Hasn’t she told you ... obviously not. I’ve left her. She’s suing me for divorce. I don’t want her back, you loon.’
‘Come now, Mr Hine.’
‘Then go and damn well ask her.’
‘We have your son, too.’
‘And you can keep him as well.’ This I said with equal force, but I was recalling that Aleric had Frederick Ashe’s nose and his ears, so it did seem that he was my son, after all. But he had a different view of life from my grandfather’s, I told myself. ‘He’ll love it there,’ I said. ‘You’ll be able to train him as one of your heavies, or hit-men, or whatever.’
‘Really, this is absurd,’ he bleated, no longer brown velvet, but brushed nylon.
‘Isn’t it!’ I agreed.
‘You’d better speak to her.’
‘Who? Evelyn? No thanks.’
‘Here she is now.’
And there she was. Evelyn had always been addicted to smooth, legal invective, each word cutting quietly to the bone. All this polish had disappeared. She was a very angry woman.
‘Tony, I’m going to kill you for this!’ she shouted. ‘You and your blasted paintings. Give the man what he wants, and let me go home. You hear me?’
‘I hear you, Evelyn. Tell me what happened.’
‘Be damned to what happened. Just do as I say.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘How can I talk—’
‘What happened, for heaven’s sake?’
She turned her face from the phone, but didn’t cover it. I heard her shout: ‘Get out of this room, you nasty little creep. Out!’ A pause. I heard the distant slam of a door, so unlike Paul. Then she was back to me.
‘I’ll tell you what happened, if it amuses you. Two men came to the door. They told me to put my coat on. Told me! I protested. They used force. Force on me, Tony. I shall never forgive you. They entered my house against my will. Aleric was there. They used physical violence on him, then they took us out to the car.’
‘He’s hurt? Aleric—is he hurt?’
She snorted. ‘Nothing hurts him. He was unconscious when they took us out, but he’d broken some fingers. Not his own. Do not interrupt, Tony. Let me say it. They brought us here, wherever here is, and they tell me we’ll be driven home when you surrender some paintings you
seem to have. Paintings. Plural. I don’t know what it means or what it’s about. You’ve only got one damned painting, which I’m glad to see the back of ...’
‘Evelyn!’
‘So just you do what he wants, or by God I’ll sue you for damages due to negligence—’
‘Evelyn!’ I shouted. She was silent. I waited, and could hear her breathing.
At last: ‘Well? Make it good, Tony.’
‘It is good. What if I tell you I now own eighty-one paintings, all valuable? Possible total value around a million and a half. That’s pounds sterling, not lira or pesetas. Pounds. Do you seriously imagine I’m about to give them away?’
In saying this, I was assuming that Paul Mace would be listening on an extension line. It did no harm to set him worrying. All the same, it was a mistake. Evelyn hissed gently between her teeth.
‘Are you telling me the truth?’
‘Though I haven’t been able to prove they’re valuable,’ I added quickly.
But the damage was done. ‘No wonder he wants them.’ I could almost hear her mind ticking over.
‘It’s not quite like that.’
‘So what can we do?’ she asked, my ally now in our combined distress.
‘I take it you’ve already told him the legal aspects of what he’s done, and explained how you’ll have the police on him when you get out of there?’
‘What are you talking about? It’s what you’re going to do that matters. What are you going to do?’
She was thinking in terms of ransom, how many paintings was she worth, and how many would we have left, and what sum of money would they get us? Her mind was already running in terms of a resumption of cohabitation.
‘I don’t intend to do anything about it. I’ve explained that to your friend Mace.’
‘You’re not ... you’d leave me ... well, let me tell you ...’
‘It’s quite simple,’ I explained patiently. ‘When he realizes he can’t use you to force my hand, he’ll let you go. Simple.’
I felt her shudder, felt it right through the phone system. She did that when she was forcibly taking control of herself. Then she spoke quietly, in her most biting tone.
‘No! No, Tony. I see through you now. You’re intending to share it all with your marvellous Dr Dennis. Doctor of what, may I ask? You’ll have to tell me, some time. But not now. Now, you’re going to listen. Do what I say, or you’ll have nothing, you and your fancy woman. You’re forgetting something, Tony. I know her address. If you do not bring the canvases, or whatever they are, and bring them now ... now, Tony ... I’ll tell him. And his men will fetch them. I’m quite certain that’s where they’ll be. Do I make myself clear?’
The situation was very clear to me, but not exactly as Evelyn assumed. I had wanted a good excuse for going there again, and now, with a bit of luck, I had been able to implant in Mace’s mind my confidence that I held eighty-one Frederick Ashe canvases. My bargaining power with these was stronger than Coombe’s with Evelyn. This, too, I had firmly implanted.
‘I will come, Evelyn,’ I said.
‘With those—’
‘As quickly as possible. That’ll be at least four hours from here.’
‘Four hours!’
‘You don’t know where you are, but I do. Four hours, at the very least.’
Then I hung up before she could extend the delay, and immediately dialled Margaret’s number. Quickly and succinctly I explained what had happened. I told her to make arrangements to take the canvases somewhere else. Somewhere safe.
‘I know just the place.’ She sounded a little breathless.
‘Oh? Where?’
‘Sotheby’s.’
‘But you can’t ...’
‘They know me. They’ll take ’em in.’
But that hadn’t been the reason for my protest. Such a distinguished firm of auctioneers, with more than adequate security, could quite well protect the, canvases. The trouble was, she was rushing me. I still wanted my proof, even if she didn’t, and I, wasn’t keen on the way she was confining the options. Before I knew it, they’d be putting them under the hammer. She seemed to sense my reason for hesitation, and laughed.
‘Oh, don’t worry. They won’t even look at them. It’ll just be a batch of canvases, miscellaneous.’
‘If you say so. But if I’ve got to go there and see this Coombe character again, I might be able to get some more information.’
‘I don’t like you going at all.’
‘But you’ll agree I’ve got no option.’
I could almost hear her grimace. ‘I suppose not, though what you hope to achieve I can’t imagine.’
To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure, myself. But somewhere in the back of my mind was a feeling of outrage that he should have abducted my wife and used her to apply pressure on me. To be sure, my opinion of her was not at its highest, but she was still my wife. And Aleric? I wasn’t sure about him, my long-implanted opinion of him controlling my thinking even now. But the outrage still applied. Certainly, I couldn’t turn up with the canvases, as demanded; I’d now virtually put them out of reach. All I could hope was that I could talk my way through and out of it. One thing was certain, though—I had to go.
‘I’ll play it by ear,’ I said, adopting a false confidence.
On this inconclusive note, we hung up. I spent a little time printing another copy of the photo that’d been torn up, and left. I managed to close and lock the front door before Detective Sergeant Dolan tapped me on the shoulder.
‘Lucky I caught you,’ he said amiably.
I couldn’t agree to that, so I grunted. ‘I’m in a hurry.’
‘I’ll walk you to your car.’
But what he had to say took longer than that, and we finished it sitting inside my hired red Fiesta.
‘There’s news?’ I asked.
‘You’re not going to like it.’
‘Say it, damn you.’
‘Touchy, aren’t we! All right. Grace Fielding has committed suicide. She left no note, so we don’t know why. But we can guess.’
‘It all got on top of her,’ I decided emptily.
I knew why, didn’t even have to think about it. My taking of the paintings had indeed been a last straw. All those years of wasted life, and the reward for them had been pared away, culminating in my grand effort in clearing the loft. Perhaps she had realized they were of value, and I had them, and it was all going to be too much strain to wrest them from me. Despair had overcome her, and she’d taken her own life.
‘How?’ I demanded.
We had reached the car, and I had to lean on the roof.
‘Apparently she’d climbed into the loft for something or other ...’
Looking for crosses on the crates perhaps, I thought, but I said nothing.
‘... and she seems to have found a length of rope up there, and tied it to one of the beams—damn it, Hine, d’you want me to describe it? She jumped through the trapdoor hole. Her feet were tapping against the loft ladder.’
I got into the car, hoping I wouldn’t be sick inside it. I’d badgered her to that end. Don’t tell me otherwise.
‘What took you to the house?’
‘The forensic evidence. The dust and the specks of brown paint.’
‘You mentioned them.’
He slid on to the seat beside me, having been talking through the open door. ‘Funny thing, the paint didn’t match up, the stuff from the pin-ball machine against the flecks in your grandmother’s ...’
‘I know what you mean.’ I was fumbling with my pipe, but the tobacco wouldn’t find the bowl.
‘And what she expected to find in the loft I can’t imagine. Certainly not canvases.’
He had his chatty mood going again, smooth and gentle, but with the persistence of a road drill.
‘I couldn’t say,’ I mumbled.
‘A pity she didn’t wait for my news,’ he observed.
‘For God’s sake!’ The pipe wouldn’t draw. I stared at i
t in disgust and groped for my brain. ‘What did you mean by “apparently”? Apparently she climbed into the loft, you said. Seems to have found some rope. You sounded doubtful.’
I felt him shrug. ‘Just that it’s strange. At her age, it’d be an effort even getting up there. And she had sleeping tablets available.’
‘She normally took them?’
‘Your grandmother did.’
‘Simpler,’ I agreed. ‘It would’ve been.’
‘More pleasant, perhaps,’ he decided. ‘Less unpleasant, say.’ He touched my arm. ‘You get my point?’
‘I get it.’
Nevertheless he insisted on enlarging on it. ‘I can see you’re blaming yourself. Oh yes you are. You got those paintings out of the house pretty smartly, because you knew she would object. You knew it would upset her. You knew there was going to be a protest, probably legal, as to the ownership ... and, incidentally, where are they? And what’re you doing with them? I hope it’s nothing to do with disposing of them, because that’d make it look as though you knew she was going to commit suicide. Which would be ridiculous, of course. The sad thing about it—and I’m sure you’ll appreciate this—is that she was in a fairly strong position regarding the ownership. It was beginning to look as though your grandmother was dead before Grace Fielding arrived back home, so that the paintings would be considered as part of the inheritance. I wonder whether she’d have taken her own life if she’d realized that. And she would have realized it, if I’d got there in time with the forensic evidence.’
He said all that in a steady, ruminative voice, as though he was merely musing to himself out loud. I might not have been there. But he knew very well that every carefully considered word was like a hammer blow at my conscience. There was nothing I could say.
He slid out of the car, swung the door, but caught it before the latch got it, drawing it open again.
‘For your information, she seems to have died intestate, so I doubt there’ll be any dispute about your ownership of the canvases. Unless further evidence comes to light.’ He nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘I ...’ But he’d slammed the door.
By Death Possessed Page 12