by Bill James
‘Oversell if it’s going to be just another flash,’ Beresford snarled.
Nev leaned forward on the balcony rail, thin face glowing like an illuminated address. ‘Rest assured, this will be no disappointment, no anti-climax.’ He seemed to hear something shouted from the crowd. ‘No, not Mrs Cray or the haversack straps. Infinitely more important. Matters transcendental.’ His eyes swept the audience, searching. ‘But, first, I want to invite the lovely Lady Butler-Minton to join me on the balcony,’ he continued, ‘noble widow of our former world-renowned Director. For what I have to tell you concerns her more than anyone. Penelope, where are you? You must be part of this triumphal moment.’
‘What the hell’s he on about?’ Beresford asked. Lepage had waited with him and the others, at first transfixed by the rhetoric and then reluctant to try to silence the sod in full view of this fascinated ground-floor gang. He saw Lady Butler-Minton, wearing yellow, begin to climb the marble stairs towards Falldew.
Julia joined Lepage and took his arm. ‘Where’ve you been, George? You’re the fucking host, yet you drop out of sight for an age.’ Some harshnesses had invaded her language since she started the Spud-O’-My-Life kiosk and learned how to choke off troublesome late-night riff-raff.
‘One or two problems, love,’ he said. ‘Nothing epic.’
‘And who is the forever-panting piece in turquoise, white and silver you reappeared with?’
‘Which is that?’
‘The bird behind you who looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but who’d prefer to get to work on something harder.’
‘Oh, yes, she’s here with Adrian.’
‘Who’s Adrian?’
‘They’re very much an item.’
‘She gazes at you non-stop, George.’
‘I want to catch what Neville says,’ he replied.
‘I think he’s been driven half mad – or more than half – by what’s happened to him. He’ll talk nonsense.’
‘Let’s see, shall we?’ Lepage said.
Falldew beamed to all sides. When his eyes reached the Japanese, Kanda gave a small, very understanding bow. Penny Butler-Minton was standing close to Falldew, and he reached out and put an arm around her shoulders, after the way the patriarch had seemed to embrace Lepage on the cottage floor. That look of contentment in Falldew’s face had been definitely replaced by something more intense: he still seemed happy, but it was a radiant, throbbing happiness now. Again it was Il Duce that Lepage thought of – if only Falldew had more to his lips. ‘I have been very downcast,’ he told the crowd. ‘Despite years of devoted service, despite the contributions I feel I might still have made to the Hulliborn, I was rejected by the institution I lived for. I am not alone in being spurned. Nor is the Hulliborn, and museums generally, the only area where this kind of Philistine brutality has been exercised. Nonetheless, it hurt me. There was even a time – I admit it, ladies and gentlemen, when I considered taking some form of revenge for my heinous treatment.’
‘Here we go, then,’ Beresford said. But he had it wrong.
‘Fortunately, better sense prevailed,’ Falldew went on. ‘One rethought. One recalled the fine history of the Hulliborn. The damage would be gross – nay, heinous in its turn.’
‘Right. Thank God he’s come to see that.’
‘He’s a liar,’ Beresford said.
‘And I am here tonight to tell you all is well,’ Nev said, ‘indeed, to tell you something more than that. I want you to think of a quietly opened door and the lovely sight I saw before me. A lovely, rehabilitating sight. I must not become more specific than this. But I want you to believe it was a moment of healing, a moment of renewed hope, it stemmed from that transcendental area I have spoken of. There before me on the floor—’
Lepage was not altogether clear then or afterwards what happened at this point, except that it silenced Nev. He saw Lady Butler-Minton suddenly stoop and wriggle decisively to free herself from Falldew’s arm. Then, remarkably quickly, she turned fully towards him, and lifted Nev aloft with total ease, gripping him by the seat of his dress trousers and a handful of the back of the tuxedo.
‘Christ, Penny’s going to chuck him over the balcony. She trains on weights, doesn’t she? Fair enough, but I was only joking,’ Beresford said.
‘Which quietly opened door?’ Julia said.
Lepage wondered whether he, in fact, knew which door. Perhaps he had provided that rehabilitating sight, without knowing it. Did Nev, in the grip of his vast mental turmoil, think he had seen a reincarnation of Flounce in the tableau room? Carrying Nev with some care in front of her at shoulder height, with no sweat, Lady Butler-Minton moved slowly away from the rail and took him towards the rear of the balcony as he yelled in protest and struggled uselessly. In her loose-sleeved gown, arms outstretched holding Nev, she looked like some superb, predatory, yellow insect, bearing off a mauve striped grub, as grub.
Lepage, listening as hard as he could to Falldew’s cries, thought he heard, above the generalized yells, something about Flounce and ‘a longed-for, now realized return’, then, later, a jabbered string of words that contained what was almost a jingle: ‘I saw reassertion of his person in vigorous, fleshly form.’ Penelope might have been swinging him around a bit in the air, and his voice seemed to come and go, like from a faulty mike. A little later, there was nothing audible from Nev at all because the guests broke into loud spasms of outright laughter and applause, presumably at Penny’s performance. Possibly, they imagined the whole thing was a piece of Founder’s Day cabaret, sign of inventive new ways under Lepage’s leadership. Itagaki and Kanda clapped with great enthusiasm, though decorously. Lepage felt damned annoyed at being spied on in the tableau room, and in being mistaken, though admittedly from the back, for a resurrected Flounce.
Lady Butler-Minton and Falldew disappeared from the balcony – Lepage imagined into one of the galleries behind. Lepage saw Ursula hare up the stairs to reclaim Neville. The band resumed with ‘Teardrops’.
‘So, what was that?’ Julia said.
‘Hard act to follow,’ Lepage replied.
‘He was screaming about Flounce, wasn’t he, George?’
‘I thought so, but what?’
‘A “return”. He spoke of a return. Gee.’
‘He’s deep into craziness.’
‘I had the idea he said something about vigour and flesh. If that’s to do with Flounce, it means only one thing, doesn’t it?’
‘He’s dead, so what does it matter?’ Lepage said.
‘Yes, but Nev was so committed, so sure.’
‘The mad are like that.’
‘Did Penny carry him off so as to silence him? Had she heard something about Sir Eric’s escapades and didn’t want any awkward, public disclosures from Falldew?’
‘Let’s have a go at this one, shall we?’ he replied, getting out on to the dance floor. It was a reasonably creaky foxtrot, put on for their age group. From there, he could glance back at Kate, but she was turned away, playing up full-steam to Adrian, fondling his grey waistcoat one hundred per cent, and rubbing an ear against his shoulder pad. ‘See?’ Lepage said. ‘She’s really stuck on him.’
‘Who on whom?’
‘The turquoise, silver and white girl and Adrian.’
‘Why are you so interested?’ she said.
‘You asked about her, that’s all.’
Julia watched Kate for a while, and then leaned closer as they danced and spoke loudly above the music: ‘She’s putting on a show, to niggle you through jealousy.’
He pretended not to hear. She yelled it again, and Simberdy, who was trundling about with Olive near them, mouthed a reply: ‘Who wants to make whom jealous?’
‘Having a good time?’ she answered.
A little later, Lepage was circulating among guests, geniality in overdrive, when Keith Jervis, the part-time porter, approached urgently. He was on security duty tonight, looking extremely smart and purposeful in his neat blue Hulliborn uniform. ‘
Something undue in Art,’ he said.
‘“Undue” in which respect, Keith? Which “Art” did you have in mind?’
‘I can understand that, as Director, you need the specifics.’
‘That is the case,’ Lepage said.
‘The Raybould Gallery,’ Jervis replied.
Lepage felt a huge rush of alarm. ‘Not something else missing?’
‘The opposite.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘An extra, as far as I can tell.’
‘Christ, Keith, are we talking about a bomb? Have you told Dr Youde, the Keeper?’
‘I think he’s rather tied up.’
‘“Tied up” how?’
‘With Lady Butler-Minton. You probably know, there’s a traditional element to this.’
‘But Youde’s wife is here with him, for God’s sake.’
‘Mrs Youde is also preoccupied, helping lay out the raffle prizes at present, I believe, sir.’
‘Tied up where, the two of them? This could be – well, it could be embarrassing. I’ve enough of that already. Am I my Keepers’ keeper?’
‘If Dr James Pirie, Secretary, happened to light on them, you mean? Or Mrs Youde. Yes, Dr Pirie can get intemperate, I know. I did think of this, but it’s not something I, as merely a part-time employee, can speak to Dr Youde, Art, about. Lady Butler-Minton is certainly conspicuous wearing that bright yellow, if this is still the case.’
‘But she was with Falldew only a short time ago.’
‘She did have Dr Falldew in her hands, yes. But I think Dr Ursula Wex, Urban Development, relieved her of that burden and is now seated in China and Glass pleading with Dr Falldew for sanity – well, no, not going that far, but asking for restraint, like. I wouldn’t bet on it from him, though, would you, Director? We should go to Art.’
‘Of course.’
They set off together, Lepage trying to keep the pace to a saunter, so as not to excite attention, but Jervis striding strongly like a sword of honour cadet on pass-out day leading the parade, except for the ponytail. Before they left the ballroom, though, Lepage was waylaid by Ivor Pinnevar, Zoology (Birds), standing on his own and looking agitated.
‘Director, I must talk,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t hear all of Falldew’s address – too far away and a noisy group near me – but am I right to believe he spoke about Mrs Cray?’
‘Not spoke about. Mentioned. He was replying to a shout from the crowd. The matter’s closed.’
‘My God, this is disturbing,’ Pinnevar said. ‘A nightmare. These echoes from another time.’
‘Yes, another time. No longer relevant.’
‘Awesome glimpses into the abyss.’ Pinnevar shook that big, blond curly head and moved his hands about convulsively in the air. He had pinkish, very round cheeks, fine skin and light-blue eyes. Usually, the effect was of a large, cheerful, insubordinate young girl. Now, anxiety had screwed up all his face muscles, and with the spasmodic arm waving he still looked sort of feminine, but now more like a mature lady harpist going into the bit she knew she always fucked up rotten. His sufferings seemed even to have taken some colour from his eyes so that they looked slaty. ‘The whippet and the tennis ball and the air-sock, too – he spoke of those?’
‘Not at all,’ Lepage replied. ‘Do enjoy the Ball, Ivor.’
‘You keep a brave front, I’ll say that for you, Director.’
Jervis stood near them radiating impatience.
‘I must go, Ivor,’ Lepage said.
‘Another crisis?’ Pinnevar asked, appalled.
‘Certainly not. A routine matter.’
‘But Nev Falldew, once the most balanced of men, sent deranged like that,’ Pinnevar replied. ‘Is a job so crucial to people?’
‘To me, it’s balls,’ Lepage said. ‘But perhaps not to everyone. You know about Samuel Smiles and his so-called gospel of work? Gospel! Work as a means of salvation? Rubbish. But it does get to people, still.’
Lepage and Jervis moved on and in a while entered the Raybould. It was Hulliborn policy not to hang other paintings in the spaces left by the Monet and three ‘El Grecos’. Youde had argued in Conclave that the areas of blank wall conveyed a tragic eloquence, signalling the museum’s grief, and making their mute but telling protest about the theft. But Jervis now pointed to the spot which L’Isolement had once graced, and Lepage saw that a large brown envelope hung there, fixed to the wall by four drawing pins. There appeared to be one word hand-printed in capitals on the envelope and, as he went nearer, he thought at first it was ‘MONET’. Closer, he saw it said ‘MONEY’.
‘I decided not to touch,’ Jervis told him.
Lepage wondered whether he should handle the envelope himself, or leave it for the police.
Jervis had obviously done a pondering session. He said: ‘Important, the way Monet and Money are like each other, like. Maybe it draws attention to that very shadowy line between the values of art and then of commerce.’
‘What?’ Lepage said. He didn’t enjoy getting a lecture on aesthetics from a part-time porter. ‘It doesn’t look to me as if there’s much money there. Not anything like enough for a Monet.’
‘Just what I mean,’ Jervis said.
‘What?’ Lepage asked.
‘It’s great art, and this tells us it’s worth a fat packet.’ Then Jervis said more sharply: ‘I never infringed on it, Director.’
‘No, no, of course not, Keith. I wasn’t hinting at that. The envelope’s still sealed, anyway.’
‘I thought there might be questions – someone not on the permanent staff.’
‘Nothing of the sort, Keith. No doubts of your integrity. Tell me, did you look into this gallery before the Ball began?’
‘Every half hour, sir.’
‘And, obviously, the envelope wasn’t there then?’
‘Correct.’
‘So, in all probability, it’s been placed by someone who is a guest.’
‘I know what I observed, Director. Full-stop.’
‘Understood. But did you see anyone in this part of the building?’
‘No, sir. I seem to have fallen down on that aspect. This will probably be held against me in any career discussions. Pardon my frankness, but I can’t afford to be snooty about work in that way you just mentioned to Dr Pinnevar.’
‘Some bullshit is often required to fertilize a conversation, Keith. Forget what I said. Your devotion to your work here is exemplary.’
Quentin Youde appeared at the Raybould entrance. He looked dishevelled and sounded breathless but slaked. ‘What’s happening, George? I saw lights in the gallery.’
‘Where were you, Quent, that you could see lights here?’ Lepage replied.
‘What’s that on the wall?’ Youde’s voice approached scream pitch.
‘Keith and I are trying to sort it out,’ Lepage said.
‘This simply appeared?’ Youde asked.
‘Like the message to King Belshazzar in the Bible,’ Lepage said. ‘Jervis found it. He deserves a pat on the back.’
Youde said: ‘I suspect it’s a ransom note from those people holding the El Grecos and that other work. It’s how they operate: “Pay up or we’ll destroy the painting.” Happened with the Dulwich gallery, didn’t it?’ He went forward to the envelope. ‘Ah, yes, as I’ve said: “MONEY.” That’s their demand.’
‘Possibly,’ Lepage said.
‘Inside, it will say how much they want, the grasping, vandal bastards.’ Youde produced a small pocket knife and reached up to prise the drawing pins clear. Pale, a little pouty, with a full head of swept-back, dark hair, Youde liked to be told he resembled Degas in a famous self-portrait. For those who might miss the similarity he had a framed print of the work hanging in his office. Simberdy reckoned, in fact, that Quentin had attempted a self-portrait himself, to point up the doppelgänger aspect, but had come out looking like a composite of Charles de Gaulle and Mrs Eleanor Roosevelt, so Youde had never made much of the painting.
Youde jabbed a
t a drawing pin.
‘Shouldn’t we wait for the police?’ Lepage asked.
‘Police? Mr Plod handling art matters? I don’t think so, Director. This situation could require very subtle treatment. The fate of priceless works is on our shoulders.’
‘Priceless is what we was just discussing, as a matter of fact,’ Jervis said, ‘but getting nowhere.’
‘What? What do you mean?’ Youde said, beginning to achieve leverage under the first drawing pin.
‘Like, strange they’re so priceless but simultaneous have a very big price,’ Jervis said. ‘They’re priceless until the bidding stops at Sotheby’s, and then these priceless objects have a price, it being what they just been knocked down for by a bid.’
Youde said irritably: ‘The price is what the market in its crude, almighty-dollar fashion, puts on something that is, in essence, unassessable.’
‘Yes, I heard something like that before,’ Jervis replied. ‘But when they was priceless ten years ago they was priceless for a different price than they can get now. Not so many almighty dollars then.’
Youde reached the second pin. ‘I don’t think I follow, Jervis, though it’s damned interesting and, yes, you’ve been very alert.’
‘Thank you, sir. What I’m saying, in my own way, is this market, which is so crude, seems to change up and down in a manner that’s quite—’
‘Quite crude and arbitrary and grossly vulgar,’ Youde replied.
‘What I’m trying to get at, sir, is, say – which God forbid – them “El Grecos” turned out to be phoney—’
Youde stopped working on the pins and spun around to face Jervis and Lepage. ‘I’m not taking this shit from a part-time porter,’ he said.
‘Or if a few eminences said they was phoney, in their view, which is the same thing in your game – not many facts, lots of opinions – then down would come the millions or whatever to nothing at all,’ Jervis said.