A Sprig of Sea Lavender

by JRL Anderson

  He opened the cabinet, and Piet, feeling that he would be in debt for the rest of his life if he dropped one of the precious pieces of china, helped him to take out the figures and stand them on the carpet. Then they carried the cabinet across the room, and Mr Constantine slid out one of the back panels. When the figurines were put back Piet found that he could see between them perfectly, and Mr Constantine arranged a chair in front of his desk so that it was in the direct line of sight from Piet’s observation post.

  ‘That seems all right,’ he said. ‘I can’t see you at all from here. Do you know, I’m not sure that I don’t like the cabinet better there than where it was before – it looks right, somehow. But it would get in the way of the door, I fear, so it will have to go back.

  ‘I’ve written a letter for my secretary to deliver by hand to an address in Hampstead,’ he went on, ‘and since she lives in Hampstead I’ve told her not to bother to come back. It seemed to me wise that no one should know of any possible interest in Mrs Vincent other than as a customer. When she comes, the receptionist downstairs will bring her up. She’ll ring through to me before she does, though, so there will be time for you to disappear. We’ve got about ten minutes in hand before she’s due. Come and have another look at the picture – I want to show you something.’

  The possible Constable was on Mr Constantine’s big desk. ‘Consider the foreleg of the leading horse,’ he said. ‘Above the fetlock it is a chestnut-brown in colour, the body-colour of the whole horse. But look at the knee. Here and there on the rest of the paintwork there are tiny hairline cracks, such as you are liable to get on old oil paintings that have not been carefully preserved. They are not very noticeable, but they are there. The knee, and about half an inch above and below it, are entirely free of them. Also, there seems to me to be something not quite right about the knee. It seems very slightly out of proportion. I didn’t notice it before because I was thinking of the picture as a whole, but since our meeting yesterday I have practically lived with it, and I find the knee puzzling. Have a look at it under the glass.’

  Piet began to look through Mr Constantine’s magnifying glass when the telephone rang. ‘That will be Mrs Vincent, I expect,’ Mr Constantine said. He answered the phone. ‘Can you please bring her up in about five minutes?’ he told the receptionist. And to Piet, ‘We’ll have to discuss that knee later. Now I think you’d better make yourself scarce.’

  Piet retired to the secretary’s room and knelt down behind the cabinet. ‘Fine,’ Mr Constantine said. ‘You wouldn’t notice that the door was ajar unless you were looking specially at it.’

  A couple of minutes later there was a knock on the main door of Mr Constantine’s room and the receptionist brought in a woman. Piet got a severe shock – he had never seen her before.

  The art dealer was at his blandest. ‘I’m delighted to see you again, Mrs Vincent,’ he said. ‘You are very punctual, and I am sorry to have kept you waiting.’

  ‘But you didn’t, at least not more than a minute or so, and I think I was a scrap early,’ said the woman called Mrs Vincent. Mr Constantine politely held the chair for her and she sat down. His politeness also served to ensure that the chair remained in the right place.

  She was certainly not the woman from Moat Cottage whom Piet knew as Mrs Vincent. This was a considerably younger woman, fair haired where Mrs Vincent was dark, and with a rounder face than Mrs Vincent’s rather fine-drawn countenance. Dark hair can be bleached and clever makeup can do much to alter the look of a face, but Piet was quite sure that this was not his Mrs Vincent in disguise. ‘So Sally was right about Mrs Vincent’s not having been in London,’ he thought.

  ‘I have brought the conveyance I told you about,’ the woman said, handing over a document with green tape and a red seal attached to it. ‘You will see that it confirms my title to anything found in the ruins of Moat Grange. Have you decided yet whether you can handle the sale of my picture for me?’

  Mr Constantine hedged. ‘I have thought of little else since you brought it to me,’ he said. ‘I am disposed to regard it as a genuine work by John Constable, but if so it is totally unknown, and before we can offer it for sale as such, the most detailed research will be required to find out as much as we can about its history. You will appreciate that an unknown work by Constable would be a major art discovery and would arouse enormous interest internationally. If we are to catalogue it and offer it under our name as a guarantee of authenticity, it is imperative that we should try to date it and ascertain how it came to be where it was when it came into your possession. It is very much in your own interests that this should be done. It could be offered, perhaps, as an unattributed work of the English school of the early nineteenth century, and it might fetch a few hundred pounds. As a work by John Constable – even a probable work by Constable – it would attract a very large sum of money. There would be keen international bidding for it. But you must see that this cannot be done forthwith. Naturally, we should like to act for you, but you brought the picture to me only the day before yesterday, and I cannot yet give you a definite decision. You already have our receipt for the picture. If you are willing, I should like you to leave it with me for at least three months. It will be perfectly safe in our strongroom, probably safer than it would be in your keeping. Will you agree to act as I suggest?’

  ‘I don’t quite understand. You are considered to be our leading expert on Constable.’ Mr Constantine bowed. ‘You have had the picture for two days – surely that is long enough for you to make up your mind?’

  ‘Regrettably, madam, it is not so. It may take years to determine the attribution of a painting, and sometimes it can never be conclusively determined. I am grateful for your remarks about my own small expertise, but in a matter of this importance I must consult the directors of our leading galleries, as well as a number of art historians. There is also –’ Mr Constantine coughed slightly – ‘the somewhat delicate matter of precise legal ownership.’

  ‘That is absolute nonsense – indeed, it is almost an insult. There is no possible doubt about my ownership of the picture. The conveyance you have on your desk sets out everything that was conveyed to me when I bought the property, and you have my permission to consult the firm of solicitors who drew up the conveyance if you are in any doubt about it.’

  ‘Forgive me, madam, but it is not the conveyance that occasions me any concern. My doubt – no, that is the wrong word, it is simply a matter of legal caution – is whether the previous owner of the property was necessarily the owner of the pictures that you say were found in a cellar beneath the ruins. If this picture, as I think may well be the case, turns out to be a genuine Constable its discovery, and ultimate sale, will attract a great deal of publicity. It would be a serious matter, for yourself as well as for my firm, if some other claimant came forward. Your claim to ownership might be established, but there might be costly litigation first. We have long experience in these matters. I am simply offering you the advice that I should give to any important client.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like it. I’m offering you a chance to make a lot of money out of your commission on the sale, to say nothing of adding to your reputation by identifying what I’m quite sure is a genuine work. All you do is to lecture me about pettifogging legal ifs and buts. There are other dealers, and if you don’t want to handle what may be the most important art find for years, I’ll go to someone who does – who understands things better. You’ve just wasted my time. Can I have my picture back, please?’

  ‘Certainly, madam, I’ll ring for a packer. And perhaps you would return my receipt.’

  Mr Constantine telephoned for a man to pack the picture, and the woman hunted in her handbag. As she handed Mr Constantine his receipt she said, ‘I’ll have the picture packed in my presence. I don’t trust you an inch.’

  When the packer came Mr Constantine asked him to bring packing materials and do up the picture where it was. He returned with a big cardboard portfolio, tissue paper, brown pap
er and string, and made a neat, expert job of packing the picture safely. ‘Shall I label it, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said the woman, ‘I’m taking it with me.’ She didn’t even thank the man for his work. As soon as he had gone she grabbed the picture and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Piet rushed from his observation post. ‘Must try to find out where she goes,’ he said. ‘Sorry – we’ll talk about things later.’

  Mr Constantine’s room was reached by an elegant flight of stairs from the hall on the ground floor. As Piet got to the top of the stairs the woman was at the bottom. She walked straight out of the building and he followed her. Outside, she was standing on the edge of the pavement, obviously looking for a taxi. Piet took no notice of her, but turned and walked away towards Grosvenor Square.

  It was not a good time for taxis – people were leaving offices, going home after shopping, or going off to early cocktail parties. Three taxis came by – all occupied. Then Piet had a stroke of luck. He spotted an empty cab with its ‘For Hire’ light showing, and beckoned to the driver. The man drew up beside him. As he did so the woman with the picture came running down the pavement. ‘I want to go to Liverpool Street,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, miss,’ said the taxi driver. ‘This gentleman has already booked me.’

  ‘Nonsense. I saw you coming and I waved to you. Besides, I’m in a hurry.’

  The taxi driver was firm. ‘I didn’t see you at all, miss. I did see this gentleman, he signalled to me and I came to pick him up. ’Fraid you’ll have to wait for another cab.’

  Piet offered a compromise. ‘I’m going to Bishopsgate,’ he said. ‘If the driver doesn’t mind I’ll be delighted to offer you a lift. Liverpool Street will do fine for me – I can easily walk from there to where I want to get.’

  ‘OK. But make up your mind. Can’t wait here in this traffic all the bloody evening,’ the taxi driver said.

  ‘It’s extremely good of you. Of course I’ll pay my share,’ the woman said. Piet opened the door for her, helped her with the big picture and followed her into the cab. After it had moved off he tried to make polite conversation. ‘Are you an artist?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, no. I’ve just been buying a picture as a wedding present for a friend,’ she said. ‘It’s a bulky thing to carry. That’s why I needed a taxi.’

  She showed no readiness for further talk. Piet, who thought that she had behaved rather stupidly with Mr Constantine, was interested in another stupidity in her lie. A picture as a wedding present – reasonable enough. But if you go to Gavell and Gainsworth to buy a picture you are probably going to spend a lot of money. She had implied that it was the picture which made her want to travel by taxi, that she would not normally do so. The sort of person who would go to Gavell and Gainsworth as a private customer would be more likely to take taxis as a matter of course.

  At Liverpool Street Piet again helped her with the picture and got out of the cab, too. ‘You can drop me here,’ he said to the driver. ‘I’ve only a short way to go, and it will save you making an awkward turn in Bishopsgate traffic.’ Not wanting any argument about extra payment for letting the woman share the cab, he paid the man twice the fare shown on the clock.

  The woman waited while the cab drove off. ‘How much do I owe you?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I had to come here anyway. Let’s forget it.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. The lift has been a tremendous help. Thank you very much.’ For the first time she gave him a genuine little smile. It made her rather hard face much more attractive. ‘Goodbye, then,’ Piet said, and walked off towards Bishopsgate.

  He did not go far. Fortunately it was a crowded time for people hurrying to the station, and after two women and a man had passed him he turned round. The woman who called herself Mrs Vincent was easily identifiable by the big package she was carrying, and she was still in sight. Piet followed her discreetly, making sure that there were always several other people between them. He hoped that she would go to the booking office, but she did not. It was after six o’clock now, and the station bars were open. She went into one of them. It had a big plate-glass window, through which Piet could follow her movements clearly. She went to the bar, ordered what looked like a gin and tonic, carried her glass to a small table and sat down, propping the picture against the table.

  Piet wanted badly to telephone for assistance, but he couldn’t risk taking his eyes off the woman while he went to a phone box. He considered what to do. On the wall near the entrance to the bar were pasted a set of timetables, which he could read while still keeping an eye on the door. He went over to them. There was a train leaving for Colchester in five minutes, one for Cambridge in twelve minutes and one for Norwich and Yarmouth in thirty-five minutes. The woman would scarcely have sat down for a drink with five minutes to catch a train, so he thought that Colchester could be ruled out. Cambridge was possible, but she would still be cutting it rather fine. The Yarmouth line seemed the best bet, leaving her comfortable time for a drink but not long enough to do much else. She had not seemed hurried in the taxi – she had glanced at her watch once, but that was all. True, she had told the taxi driver that she was in a hurry, but that could have been simply an argument to persuade him to abandon Piet and take her. Having to get through London traffic from the West End to the City, she might well have been worried about catching either the Colchester or the Cambridge train and kept on looking at her watch. But she hadn’t, which was another indication that she was making for neither of them.

  Piet had another look through the bar window. She was still sitting comfortably over her drink. Of course she might not be going anywhere by train, but have arranged to meet someone in the bar. Or she might be going to Southend, or to any of half a hundred suburban places served from Liverpool Street. He would just have to go on watching her. He tried to assess the probabilities of a suburban journey. The Liverpool Street lines are much used by commuters, for convenience and to avoid the problems of car parking, but she didn’t look as if she had just come from an office, and she would have had to leave early to keep an appointment with Mr Constantine at five o’clock. That wasn’t impossible, and if she had a season ticket to Liverpool Street she would naturally use it to get home. But there were dozens of suburban trains, and if she wanted to get home it seemed improbable that she would waste time by sitting in a bar. He couldn’t rule out a suburban destination, but decided that the probabilities were either a main line journey, or the use of the bar for a meeting place. If a main line journey, the Yarmouth train seemed quite likely.

  If she went by train, he would have to go too. And he couldn’t afford to be ticketless. Production of his warrant card and a word of explanation would doubtless get him on the train, but it would mean delay at the barrier, and might draw attention to him. There was time to go to the booking office. Where to book a ticket for was a gamble, but it might as well be Yarmouth. It was the end of that particular line, it would get him on the train without fuss, and if she got out at Norwich or some other intermediate stopping place it wouldn’t matter much – he could just tell the ticket collector that he’d decided to break his journey.

  The few minutes at the booking office were a panic of anxiety, with infinite relief when he got back to the bar to see that the woman was still there. There were now twenty-five minutes to go before the train. If he had guessed rightly, she ought to be moving soon, for the train would probably be in and she’d want to be sure of getting a seat.

  With twenty minutes to go she did get up, collected her picture and left the bar. While she was walking from her table to the door Piet slipped back to the timetables and stood studying them with his back to the door. He allowed a moment of extra time for getting the bulky picture through the swing door, and then turned. She was making for the main line platforms and he felt the thrill of the successful hunter when he saw that she was going towards an entrance over which an indicator board announced a train for Norwich and Yarmouth. Sh
e must have had a return ticket, for the ticket inspector let her through and she walked along the train. Piet watched until he saw her get into a carriage, and then followed her to the train.

  She had chosen a carriage about the middle of the train. Piet decided to get into the rear carriage: he need then look only one way when the train stopped to see if she got out. He couldn’t relax until the train started, in case the whole business of going by train was an elaborate blind and she intended to go back before the train pulled out. He let down the window in the door of his compartment, opened the door and stood on the platform behind it looking through the open window. The door effectively masked him, and he doubted if the woman, getting out from several carriages along, could notice that she was being observed.

  Unless a train is very crowded, people seldom choose the rear compartment. This may reflect a kind of folk-wisdom in avoiding a point of danger should one train run into another, or it may be simply that people want to be nearer the station exit when they get to where they are going. This was not a particularly crowded train and no one else made for Piet’s compartment. He stayed where he was until there was half a minute to go, when he returned to the compartment, shut the door and stood looking out of the window. There was no sign of the woman and no one got out of the train before it left.