Next of Kin

by John Boyne

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Sweeney, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think he’d sully his collection with the work from here. No offence, of course.’

  ‘None taken.’

  ‘No, I believe he’s more interested in the gallery next door to yours. The Clarion.’

  ‘It’s an excellent gallery,’ said Montignac, nodding his head appreciatively. ‘But of course only half the Clarion’s floor space is taken up with pieces that are actually for sale. The rest is made up of visiting exhibitions and, of course, the restoration room.’

  ‘We’re aware of that.’

  Montignac nodded, unsure where this conversation was going. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually, when it was clear that Sweeney wasn’t intending on enlightening him any further for the time being. ‘I don’t see where I fit into this. The Clarion is a different gallery entirely to the Threadbare. We’re not connected in any way.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, Mr Montignac?’

  ‘Perfectly sure,’ he replied. ‘Separate owners, separate businesses.’

  ‘They seem to have a more physical connection, don’t they?’ asked Sweeney. ‘These aren’t detached buildings after all.’

  Montignac nodded. ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘In fact the galleries to our left and right were part of one large building which was knocked into three smaller units decades ago.’

  ‘My employer noticed the staircase on the upper floor of your gallery,’ said Sweeney, nodding up to the mezzanine level above. ‘There’s a doorway up there, I believe.’

  ‘To our storeroom, yes.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be connected to the galleries on either side?’

  ‘There are thin walls between them, yes. But no doorways. There’s no way through to each gallery if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  ‘The plans of the buildings show that there’s a small attic running across the top.’

  ‘Well yes,’ admitted Montignac. ‘There’s a roof panel into the—’ He hesitated and inclined his head a little, looking at the young man with renewed interest.

  Sweeney reached into his pocket and wrote down an address on a piece of paper and held it up for Montignac to see. ‘Can you remember this?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes of course.’

  ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘I’m sorry, no.’

  ‘But you could find it.’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Sweeney, crumpling the piece of paper up and putting it back in his own pocket. ‘My employer keeps one of his private offices there. He’d be very interested in meeting with you. Perhaps tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock?’

  Montignac considered it. ‘We are quite busy here at the moment,’ he said.

  ‘I think it might be to your advantage,’ said Sweeney. ‘More profitable than, perhaps, an evening spent at the roulette tables in the Unicorn Ballrooms.’

  Montignac narrowed his eyes and stared at him. ‘What do you know of that?’ he asked.

  Sweeney stood up and collected his watercolours. ‘Like I say, Mr Montignac, it might be considerably to your advantage to meet with my employer. Can he expect you at the appointed time?’

  Montignac declined to answer but Sweeney appeared to take this as an assent for he smiled, gave a quick nod, and left the gallery with his paintings under his arm. Montignac sat there for quite some time considering the matter, wishing that he could remember a man who had been looking around the gallery earlier in the week and investigating the staircases and different floors but despite his misgivings he knew that he would keep the appointment. He had nothing to lose after all.

  He knocked on the door at the appointed time and it was immediately opened by Sweeney, wearing, Montignac noticed, the exact same suit of clothes he had worn the previous day.

  ‘Mr Montignac,’ he said, opening it wide and ushering him inside, and not sounding in the least surprised that he had come. ‘We’re delighted you could make it.’

  ‘Strange place for an office, isn’t it?’ he asked, for the street where they were situated was in one of the less salubrious areas of London and certainly not one where one would expect to find a serious art connoisseur.

  ‘My employer has several different offices,’ he explained. ‘Sometimes he needs to use one of the more discreet ones for meetings such as this. Follow me please.’

  Montignac trailed after him along a musty, filthy corridor and shivered slightly in distaste. The naked light bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling was host to an enormous, vacant cobweb while the paint was in an advanced state of peeling from the walls; rotten floorboards were visible through a ripped carpet. They moved in silence, going up three flights of stairs before coming to a door, which Sweeney rapped upon.

  ‘Come in,’ said a voice from inside and Sweeney opened the door, standing back to usher Montignac inside and then closed it behind him again, standing guard outside as he left the gallery manager and the buyer alone together.

  ‘Mr Montignac,’ said the man, stepping around from behind the desk cheerfully. ‘I’m delighted you could come. Please, take a seat.’

  Montignac shook his hand cautiously and tried to recall whether he had seen him before in the gallery but his face was unfamiliar to him.

  ‘I’m a little in the dark as to what I’m doing here, Mr…?’

  ‘The name’s Keaton,’ said the man. ‘And it’s not actually Mr,’ he added with a shrug. ‘But we’ll let it go for now. I suppose you young people think that titles are something of an anachronism in this day and age.’

  Montignac shrugged. ‘I think it’s generally only those who don’t have a title who hold them in contempt,’ he suggested.

  ‘I think that’s a very perceptive analysis,’ said Keaton pleasantly, sitting down behind his desk. ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything to drink,’ he added. ‘We don’t keep any comforts here, I’m afraid. If we were in my normal office I could give you a rather nice Glenfiddich but I wanted to meet you in private. I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr Montignac.’

  ‘More than I’ve heard about you then,’ he replied, taking the time to study the man sitting opposite him. He was in his mid-fifties with thinning dark hair and a strong, aristocratic jawline. Immaculately dressed, Montignac could see a pair of cufflinks creeping out at the ends of his jacket sleeves encrusted with what he knew immediately to be diamonds. He imagined that the man looked as pristine at the end of every day as he did at the start.

  ‘I try to be kept informed about interesting people,’ said Keaton. ‘And you seem to me to be just such a fellow. I’d be right in saying that you read history of art at university, wouldn’t I?’ asked Keaton.

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Cambridge, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was at Cambridge myself many years ago. Reading law.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And now you run a gallery.’

  ‘For four years now, yes.’

  ‘And how do you enjoy it?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders in a non-committal way. ‘The lady who owns it allows me a great deal of autonomy.’

  ‘You’ve recently taken on a young man, haven’t you? One Gareth Bentley.’

  Montignac shifted in his chair and hesitated before answering. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Any particular reason why?’

  ‘I have an eye for talent,’ he replied with a smile. ‘I feel that Mr Bentley might be of some use to me.’

  ‘You know who his father is, of course.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Keaton nodded and breathed heavily through his nose. ‘He may well prove to be one of your more perceptive finds,’ he added after a moment. ‘And you enjoy your life at the gallery?’

  ‘There are worse jobs to do.’

  ‘I daresay there are. You’re well paid for your services?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ he admitted, unsure whether he should be answering such
personal questions but presuming that there must be a point to them and that whatever game was being played out, he would be sensible to simply participate in it.

  ‘But then you were never really in it for the money, were you?’ suggested Keaton.

  ‘Everyone works for the money,’ said Montignac, confused.

  ‘Some people do,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘I’m not sure that men like you and I do. And then of course there are those who are expecting to come into a large inheritance and who work in order to occupy their time while they’re waiting for their loved one to pass away.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘But should that inheritance be cruelly and unexpectedly snatched from their grasp, then the idea of getting up to work long hours for someone else and for a small amount of recompense every day for the rest of their lives might begin to appear less attractive.’

  Montignac stiffened in the chair. He liked to be in control of situations and felt that he almost always was. However, it was obvious that Keaton knew a lot more about him than he was comfortable with.

  ‘Who are you exactly, Mr Keaton?’ he asked. ‘How do you know so much about me?’

  ‘I am merely a connoisseur of the arts,’ he said with a smile. ‘And I find myself in a position where from time to time I can provide services for other like-minded connoisseurs.’

  ‘And what service are you currently providing?’

  Keaton smiled and said nothing, but looked down at a series of pages on his desk. After a moment he looked back across the table at Montignac with a look of concern on his face. ‘You’re quite the gambler, aren’t you, Mr Montignac?’ he asked. ‘Not very successful at it, of course.’

  ‘I’ve had some luck,’ he said, a little offended.

  ‘I’m not sure that Nicholas Delfy would agree with you on that.’

  ‘You know him?’ asked Montignac, his jaw rigid.

  ‘Not very well. I’m familiar with his work, of course. And I believe that he wants to see you in two weeks’ time. A little matter of ten thousand pounds that you owe him. For starters.’

  Montignac said nothing. He set his jaw and stared at Keaton, wishing he would get to the point.

  ‘Which is a lot of money,’ conceded Keaton. ‘And if the things I’ve heard about Mr Delfy are true, then he won’t take very kindly to being disappointed. He’s not a very forgiving character, by all accounts. Very unsporting. On a separate note,’ he said then with a flourish, ‘I believe that some of the pieces from the Cézanne collection will be passing through Cork Street in advance of their national tour?’

  Montignac thought about it. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s true but they won’t be on display at my gallery if that’s what you’re hoping for. We don’t do any restoration work there.’

  ‘No. They’re going to the one next door to yours, aren’t they? The Clarion, I believe.’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘There are some lovely pieces in that collection, I imagine,’ said Keaton, leaning forwards and smiling. ‘What do you say you find a way to steal them for me?’ he asked as if this was the most natural question in the world and a perfectly acceptable thing to throw into a conversation.

  2

  MARGARET RICHMOND COULD HARDLY contain her excitement. Twice during the week Stella had phoned to make sure that she would be at Leyville over the weekend as she had something of particular importance to tell her. Of course the phone calls had been pointless for there was no other place that Margaret could have imagined that she would be; she had no home of her own after all and no family to speak of other than the Montignacs. But she hated being left alone there for days at a time, with only her memories and loneliness for company, and was pleased that Stella’s London trip was finally coming to an end.

  Her excitement turned to apprehension, however, when she rose on Saturday morning to find a scattering of coats and bags in the hallway, some obviously belonging to Stella but the others, she presumed, the property of Raymond Davis. She hadn’t expected them until lunchtime and so hadn’t planned on making the beds in Stella’s room, and another in a guest room, until later that morning but assumed Stella had managed this herself when she’d got home. The thought crossed her mind as to where exactly Raymond might have slept the night before but she dismissed it quickly. It was not something she wanted to dwell on.

  She was in a state of some anxiety, therefore, as she waited for them to rise and didn’t want to go back upstairs in case her worst fears regarding the sleeping arrangements were confirmed. She moved around the kitchen noisily, hoping that the clanging sounds of pots and pans would wake the dormant couple, and was just preparing a pot of tea when she was surprised to see them walking towards the back door from the garden.

  ‘Stella,’ she said as they came inside. ‘I thought you were still asleep.’

  ‘Asleep? Oh no. We barely got any sleep,’ she said, coming forwards and throwing her arms around her former nanny. ‘How are you, Margaret? Miss me, did you?’

  ‘Well of course I missed you,’ she said, returning the hug. ‘You know I hate it when you’re up in London. It’s far too lonely down here for me and far too dangerous up there for you. Good morning, Mr Davis,’ she added, a little nervously as she turned to Stella’s companion, greeting him with uncomfortable formality.

  ‘Good morning, Margaret,’ he said cheerfully. ‘And haven’t I told you that you must call me Raymond?’

  ‘Raymond then,’ she said with a smile, although she still felt awkward with the familiarity. ‘Well I hope you’re both hungry because I’ve got the breakfast on.’

  ‘We’re absolutely famished,’ said Stella, stepping across to the oven to see the frying pans of bacon, eggs and sausages that were being prepared. ‘Smashing,’ she added. ‘I’ll set the table.’

  They almost never used the formal dining room or even the smaller family room to eat in any more; instead most meals were taken around the small round table in the kitchen, by the latticed bay windows with the views over the garden. It was a most pleasant place to eat and now that the full-time servants had been let go one did not have to worry about the staff interrupting all the time.

  ‘How were the girls during the week?’ asked Stella. ‘No problems with them, I hope?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Margaret as they sat down to breakfast. ‘Obviously they’re a little unhappy about only working part-time but I told them that they were more than capable of finding full-time jobs for themselves if they wanted them and all we needed was a cleaner a few times a week and a part-time cook. It’s not like the old days, is it?’ she added sadly.

  ‘No,’ said Stella, recalling when there had been five members of the family living here along with the staff. In her grandfather’s day there had been more than twice that number, what with all the members of the extended family tree who had taken up residence there when they’d fallen on hard times. Now it was just her, the last Montignac, actually living at Leyville.

  ‘And how was London?’ asked Margaret. ‘Did you go to the theatre much?’

  ‘Once or twice,’ said Raymond. ‘But mostly we dined out and caught up with some of Stella’s friends.’

  ‘But you’re home for a while now, aren’t you?’ she asked hopefully. ‘You’re not going straight back to the city?’

  ‘Raymond has to be back for work on Monday morning,’ said Stella. ‘But I’m not going anywhere. I intend to spend the rest of the summer lazing around here and keeping as far away from London as possible. It’s too hot there and I’m sure there’s a stench starting to rise up from the Thames.’

  Margaret smiled; she could hardly have been happier. ‘Well that’s wonderful news,’ she said. ‘And we’ll have each other for company.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stella, who—fond as she was of Margaret, despite everything—wouldn’t have minded if there were a few more young people around the village. ‘But we’ll be kept busy, of course. Planning, I mean.’

  ‘Planning?’ asked Margaret, looking up
. ‘Planning what?’

  Stella and Raymond exchanged an excited look and he reached across and took her hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. ‘I’m happy to tell you, Margaret, that Stella has agreed to marry me.’

  ‘Well I knew that,’ said Margaret, feeling a little confused. ‘Didn’t you decide that at Christmas?’

  ‘Yes, but now we’ve set the date,’ said Stella. ‘We’re actually going to go through with it.’

  ‘Well don’t make it sound like such a trial, darling,’ said Raymond with a laugh before turning back to Margaret. ‘We’re thinking of the first Saturday in October. How does that sound?’

  Margaret opened her mouth but found herself lost for words. She jumped up from her seat and went around to Stella, who burst out laughing as the ritual of kisses and embraces began.

  ‘That’s the most wonderful news I’ve heard in a long time,’ said Margaret, who even went so far as to kiss Raymond before returning to her seat. ‘Oh, and there was me thinking that you were the types to have one of those long-drawn-out engagements. The kind that last for years and years and the bloom has gone off the rose before you’ve even made it down the aisle.’

  ‘Well we were thinking of that originally,’ admitted Stella.

  ‘But I persuaded her otherwise,’ said Raymond quickly. ‘We decided there was no point wasting any more time. Besides, I can’t take the risk that Stella might come to her senses. So October it is, which only gives you two months to put the whole show together.’

  ‘And that’s how you and I will be spending our time from now on, Margaret,’ said Stella. ‘If you think you can handle it, that is.’

  ‘Handle it? I’ll be delighted!’ she said. Her head was already filled with the promise of what was to come. A family living at Leyville again. Soon enough there would be children, plenty of children she hoped, and she would still be young enough to take care of them. They’d have to bring the servants back then and life would be as it once was; her own future would be secure.