‘And what does he want?’
‘In general terms, money and power. Specifically, the headship of the Fine Arts department and eventually the whole college. He’ll never get the latter, of course. The design people have a lock on that position, as Design is seen as more economically viable, and Fine Arts as a pretty-pretty frill. But Braithwaite has never let reality stand in the way of his goals.’
‘So you think,’ said Alan, frowning, ‘that he might have killed Chandler in order to take over his position. Not even considering all the technical difficulties that present themselves, that end seems far from a sure thing.’
‘Of course, and any sensible person can see that. Braithwaite isn’t sensible. I’m not even sure, and this is honesty talking, not mere prejudice, I’m not sure he’s entirely sane.’
‘“A madman at large in our college”. Dennis said that,’ I said.
‘And I quite agree with him,’ said Alan. ‘Matters have progressed, or perhaps the word is regressed, from murder for what might be an understandable, though damnable, motive, to threats making little sense, to vicious and apparently senseless destruction. I can easily fit Braithwaite into the villain’s role for many, if not all, of these events. I dislike the man myself, and have done from the moment I met him. But I must remind you both that the most recent attack was upon Braithwaite himself, with injuries almost impossible to have been self-inflicted.’
‘I haven’t heard,’ said Amy in a carefully expressionless voice, ‘any idea of his prognosis.’
‘He’s expected to survive.’
‘Oh.’
Her voice sounded bleak. I was sure she was thinking what I was, heaven forgive me. I changed the subject. ‘Amy, there’s one more thing. Those personnel records that went missing. Why do you suppose someone took them, and what might they have done with them? Chucked them in the fire?’
‘Really, it’s hard to imagine why anyone would want them. All of the data, as I told you before, are computerized. I don’t even know why we kept the paper records, really, except perhaps in the case of a computer crash.’
‘Even then,’ I mused, ‘someone knowledgeable can usually get the data back. Well, someone took them for some reason, and maybe I can work out why if I put my mind to it. Now, Amy, would you be terribly offended if I brought you a few groceries? The thing is, I’m more and more certain that you’re going to get your job back, sooner rather than later, but meanwhile you and the boys have to eat. Alan and I have more than we need. Won’t you let us share?’
‘I don’t like to take charity.’
‘This wouldn’t be charity, not in the way you mean. It’s a gift from friends. That’s different, isn’t it?’
‘I … will you let me pay you back when I can?’
‘Of course we will! Oh, I’m so glad you’ve said yes! Now, do you want to tell me what you need, or just let me use my own judgement? Alan will have to help me when it comes to things for the boys. I never had children, so I’m not sure what they like.’
‘And my grandsons are far older than your boys,’ said Alan, ‘but I remember when I was a lad, what I wanted was a great deal of anything that wasn’t good for me. We’ll bring you an assortment, Amy, and what you don’t want you can pass on to someone else who could use it.’
We left before her stammered thanks became tearful. ‘We must do more for her than simply help with food,’ said Alan as we got back in the car. ‘It’s insupportable that she and the children should have to live like that.’
‘I know, but what can we do?’
‘For a start, get in touch with her landlord. There are laws about decent housing, and he’s breaking several of them.’ Alan sounded as grim as I’ve ever heard him.
‘But … is there any danger that the child protection people might get into the act? I don’t know what they’re called over here, but there must be agencies that look after children. And in America, sometimes the kids are taken away from mothers when the do-gooders don’t think they’re being looked after properly.’
‘That can happen in this country,’ Alan acknowledged with a sigh, ‘but there must usually be actual physical abuse, or proof that the parent is mentally ill or using illegal substances. I agree it could be a concern, but I still have some influence in this county if something untoward were to happen. I think we can keep social services and the NSPCC out of it. I’ll phone our solicitor the moment we get home.’
I worked out, after a little trouble, that NSPCC must stand for National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, the human equivalent of the RSPCA. I was a little dubious about Amy’s reaction to any kind of interference, but if Alan wanted to take action, let him approach her about it. I had grocery shopping to do.
Bearing in mind Amy’s very small refrigerator and limited cooking facilities, I bought a lot of vegetables that would keep well without refrigeration, and would make a good hearty soup with the chunk of beef I threw in. Milk, of course, and good wholemeal bread. Butter. I thought about and rejected orange juice. Oranges were better and would keep longer. Apples, too. Potatoes. A pound of mince would just about fit in the fridge, and would make a cottage pie with the vegetables, or hamburgers if the kids preferred them. Peanut butter, very nutritious and shelf-stable. With a good selection of canned fruits and vegetables and soups, chosen to match what little I knew of childish preferences, that did it. At the last minute I tossed some chocolate biscuits in the cart, a pound of sugar and a large box of tea bags, and checked out. Then I turned around and went back for salt and pepper. Amy probably had some, but I couldn’t be sure.
I took my bounty home. Alan could deliver the many bags more easily than I, and I needed to stick around for the phone call from the conservator. We had a quick sandwich lunch and then he took off with the food and I sat around waiting for a phone call.
Aeons ago when I was in high school, I read an assigned book of which I remember almost nothing. One thing stuck with me, though. The author mused about the nature of time, and its lack of consistency. It flows at different rates, depending upon the circumstances. The approach of something dreaded makes the clock whirl. Awaiting something desired slows time to a near-stop. When one is bored the day passes endlessly, but a week of boring days is gone in the blink of an eye.
That afternoon of waiting for the phone call from Ms Winston was one of the longest I remember. It wasn’t so much that I was eager to talk with her, though I was. My real problem was that I was pining for action, and there didn’t seem to be anything useful I could do, except talk to this art expert. I didn’t even know what to tell her to look for. Blast Matt anyway, for being so cryptic! He had something in mind, but I had no idea what.
I paced. I tried to knit. I tried to read. I picked up a cat at random and plopped it on my lap, but I was too edgy; it jumped down. I could have done with Watson to sleep on my feet, but Alan had taken him with the thought that the boys might enjoy seeing him, though I had my doubts about Watson and the kitten. Worry about that occupied me for a good two minutes.
At last, at last (after perhaps an hour of clock time), the phone rang. ‘Mrs Martin? Kate Winston. I’m about to go in to the Cathedral, the south door. Where shall I meet you?’
‘The south porch is perfect. I’ll be there in less than five minutes. Oh, and I’ll be wearing a hat.’
Kate turned out to be a petite, attractive woman of about forty, dressed in a charcoal grey pantsuit. I had crammed a knitted orange hat on my untidy hair, and wore the jeans and pullover I’d had on all day. She looked at me quizzically once we’d introduced ourselves. ‘Is there a rule here about hats for women? I thought that had been passé for years.’
‘You’re quite right. I wear hats because I like them. Also, this time, for identification. When we go on in you’ll see I’m wearing absolutely the only one in sight.’
‘You don’t mind if I take a little time to see the Cathedral? You sounded quite urgent last evening.’
‘The matter is urgent, or may
be, but something about this place changes one’s perspective. I’m happy to wander around with you, or not, as you choose.’
She preferred to sightsee by herself, so I slipped into the prayer chapel for a moment and then sat at the back of the nave soaking up the vast peace. I would, I thought, be quite happy to die in this place, when the time came. One felt so close to the eternal here that the transition would surely be seamless.
Ms Winston was more serene when she rejoined me. ‘You’re right about the changed perspective,’ she said. ‘It’s been a hectic day, but I feel much more relaxed now, and ready to hear what you need from me.’
I suggested we walk to my house. Discussions of murder and mayhem were inappropriate in the Cathedral.
‘The thing is,’ I said as we walked through the close, ‘that a great many unpleasant things have been happening at the college. The death of Mr Chandler was just the beginning.’ I sketched out the sequence of events, leaving out the phone calls to Gilly, but including Matt’s disappearance. ‘We’ve been in touch with him, though, and he suggested something rather odd. He wouldn’t say why, but he wants an expert like you to study some of William Braithwaite’s paintings, older ones and then some more recent.’
She frowned. ‘What would I be looking for?’
‘I have no idea. He seemed to think you’d find something important.’
‘Hmm. It would certainly help if I knew what he had in mind. Perhaps I should talk to him.’
‘I don’t know where he is.’ That was literally true. I didn’t know his precise whereabouts at that precise moment. ‘And he isn’t answering his phone. I know this is an imposition on your time, and Alan and I are willing to pay you whatever you ask. But could you just spend a little time this afternoon at the college looking at his work? There are several on display, both old and new.’
She shrugged. ‘I go back to London tomorrow, but I’ve no obligations for the rest of today. Why not?’
We were at my house by that time, and Alan had returned, so the three of us packed up in our car and drove to the college. It was a relief to know we wouldn’t find Braithwaite lurking around some corner. The atmosphere of the place seemed to be much more pleasant without him, though that was no doubt my imagination.
We found Gilly, who showed us the way to the gallery where the permanent collection rotated. Three of Braithwaite’s early paintings were hung there. We waited while Ms Winston looked at them with the naked eye and a magnifying glass she whipped out of her bag. ‘Typical of his work,’ she said at last. ‘I’ve never cared for his style, but it’s certainly popular. I can’t imagine what your printmaker expected me to find.’
‘He wanted you to look at the more recent work as well,’ I said. ‘Gilly, there’ll be some in the studio, won’t there?’
‘Of course. He’s been working like mad, and I think several are almost ready to be shipped off to the gallery in London. I’ll show you.’
Ms Winston brightened when she saw them. ‘I’d heard he’d improved lately, and it’s true. The palette is more sophisticated, the composition more interesting.’ She walked over with her magnifying glass and started studying them closely.
She spent a long time over them, going back and forth from one to another. She took a powerful flashlight out of her bag and shone it, not on the paintings, but across them, and then studied them again with her glass.
At last she looked up. ‘Well. I know now what your printmaker wanted me to find. These paintings are not by William Braithwaite. They are excellent imitations of his style, and I’d swear the signature on this one is genuine, but it’s quite certain these were painted by someone left-handed. Which Braithwaite is not.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
We invited her to dinner, and she was happy to accept. We all needed to talk over this astonishing development and its ramifications.
Before we’d left the college, Gilly had helped us lock up the faked paintings in a secure closet. Whatever the story turned out to be, we needed to make sure those paintings didn’t suddenly disappear. And Alan had insisted that Gilly come home with us, even though it wasn’t yet six.
I quickly assembled the prawn stir-fry ready to cook, and while we waited for the rice we sat over drinks in the kitchen and tossed ideas back and forth.
‘We now know,’ said Kate, ‘why the man’s paintings have improved so much of late. I’d heard rumours, but it had never occurred to me that someone else was painting them.’
I took a good swig of my bourbon. ‘But I don’t understand at all. I can see someone painting fake Braithwaites to sell. It’s done all the time. The number of Old Masters out there far exceeds what those painters could have done in their lifetimes. But the forgers also fake the signatures. You’re convinced that the signature is genuine. Why would Braithwaite sign a painting that isn’t his?’
‘Before you answer that, let me ask one,’ said Alan. ‘What makes you so certain the signature is Braithwaite’s?’
‘I can’t answer that without using a cartload of technical terms that would mean little to you. But one obvious bit of evidence is that the signature is quite plainly right-handed. So whoever signed that painting, it wasn’t the chap who painted it. And it would take a powerful suspension of disbelief to work a third person into the plot.’
‘Why do you say a chap painted them?’ asked Gilly, a slight edge to her voice. ‘Why couldn’t it be a woman?’
‘It could. I used the male term partly because the he/she bit is awkward, but also partly because there are physical differences between male and female painters. Not just the obvious ones!’ she added in response to our laughter. ‘Detectable in their paintings, I mean. Mostly the brushwork. Our arm structures are different from men’s, and in heavy oils, like the ones we’re discussing, the differences can be spotted. But they’re subtle, and it would take more than a cursory look to say for sure. I’m fairly certain, though, that the new Braithwaites were painted by a man, and absolutely certain that they were painted by a lefty.’
‘So someone painted imitation Braithwaites, and then Will himself signed at least one of them. Why?’
‘Oh, Dorothy, surely it’s obvious!’ Gilly was getting impatient. ‘The great Pooh-Bah’s paintings weren’t selling anymore. They’d got to be parodies of themselves, dashed out carelessly, and the punters could tell the difference. So he gets someone to paint fakes, signs them, and they sell. His star is once more in the ascendant. I wonder how much the sod paid the real painter.’
‘Who,’ said Alan pointedly, ‘was left-handed.’
I got it first. ‘Like the person who attacked him.’
‘Exactly.’
‘A left-handed painter, then.’
‘A good left-handed painter,’ Kate amended. ‘Or at least a first-class forger. One doesn’t know whether he could do anything original.’
I personally thought most four-year-olds, given the proper materials, could make reasonable copies of a Braithwaite, but I didn’t say so. ‘A student? Or would it have to be someone with more experience?’
Both Kate and Gillian chuckled. ‘Braithwaite’s work isn’t very sophisticated,’ said Kate. ‘He happened to catch on, though I have never understood quite why. The brilliant colours, I suppose, coming at a time, twenty years or so ago, when the world felt drab and wanted brightening. He got a rave review by the art critic of The Times, and that did it. He became the man of the hour, the painter to acquire as an investment, or for the snob appeal.’
‘Nothing succeeds like success.’
Kate nodded. ‘But it doesn’t succeed forever, not unless there’s real worth behind it. Braithwaite rode that wave for a long time, but the market became saturated, and his painting didn’t change, at least not for the better. Collectors are tired of him. He had to do something. He leads, I hear, a wildly extravagant life.’
‘Certainly a wild one, so far as women are concerned,’ I said acidly. ‘Or at least, so I understand. I wonder why his wife puts up with it.’
‘Hmm. So if the money wasn’t coming in anymore, she might have started looking for greener pastures. But would he have cared, since he’s the compleat philanderer?’
‘Of course he would have cared! His wife is one of his possessions. No woman could even think of leaving a marvellous man like him.’ Gilly’s voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘What a frightful blow to his self-esteem. No, he couldn’t allow that to happen.’
‘So,’ I said, thinking out loud. ‘Let’s say the other painter is a student of Braithwaite’s. He sees that the boy – yes, I know, Gilly, but for the sake of the argument – that the boy is talented, and he, Braithwaite, gets an idea. He begins to give private lessons to the boy, and as an exercise, he says, sets him to copying one of his own works. An earlier one, because the style was better back then. And the boy does a brilliant job. The copy, Braithwaite can see, is actually better executed than the original.
‘Braithwaite is delighted. He tells the boy that his work is so good, he thinks there’s a market for it. If he, the student, can do a dozen or so paintings fairly quickly, Braithwaite will send them to a gallery he knows and see what happens. He encourages the boy to use the same style as the copied painting because there’s a built-in market for that sort of thing. Ooh, I can just see him, that smarmy smile, the fake modesty, the sort of “you paint like me and one day you’ll be pretty good, son” speech. And the kid laps it up and paints like mad and turns them over to Braithwaite, and sure enough! They all sell, for a couple of hundred pounds each.’
The Gentle Art of Murder Page 21
