The Caroline Quest

by Barbara Whitnell

  I tried not to watch him too obviously and began to inspect the lots for myself, but after a few moments I looked round and saw that he was squatting down to peer at the underside of a small table. As I watched, a small, elderly lady tapped him on the shoulder with her catalogue and he looked up at her with a smile, standing up at once to answer the questions she was clearly asking him concerning that particular piece of furniture. He pointed out different features, stooping again to show her the curve of the legs.

  He was unhurried, good-humoured, and I could see that she was charmed by him, smiling to herself long after he had raised his hand in farewell and gone on to look at something else.

  I’m right about him, I thought, seeing this byplay. He’s a nice man. A really nice man, of the kind that I had signally failed to meet at any stage in my life before. But the attraction I felt for him wasn’t just because of his niceness. Chemistry was at work as well so powerfully that I had an overwhelming urge to go over to his side and put my arms around him. Instead I made a great effort and turned my back on him, wandering over to a piece of furniture that caught my eye. I looked it up in my catalogue Lot 239. a Sheraton worktable in satinwood. It felt silky to the touch, and the shape of it was as satisfying, I thought, as a good meal. This, if nothing else, illustrated Steve’s point; nothing was more beautiful than good wood and excellent craftsmanship. It would be interesting to know about such things; to learn how to distinguish the fake from the genuine article. Maybe he would teach me, I thought hopefully. Well, a girl can dream, can’t she?

  The pictures were in an adjoining room and, resolutely leaving Steve to himself, I went through to see what was on offer. A group of watercolours caught my eye. I looked them up in the catalogue, too, and saw that they were described as being ‘attributed to Augustus Marley’. It took me a moment to realise that the man who was studying them earnestly only a yard or two away was none other than Mr Higginson, the man I had taken such a dislike to at Lovells. He glanced at me indifferently and turned away again before apparently realising my identity and looking once more in my direction to nod stiffly in greeting.

  I nodded back but said nothing, moving a few feet away from him to study a large oil painting which had pride of place on an adjoining wall. It depicted a family dressed in eighteenth-century costume. There was Papa in his wig and velvet jacket looking ahead proudly, head erect. Beside him was Mama who, in an elaborate, diaphanous blue dress, gazed fondly upwards at her husband, several angelic-looking children draped artistically around her knee and a small lapdog leaping up on his two hind legs.

  ‘Happy families!’ said a voice in my ear. ‘Such sentimental twaddle! The mother was no better than she should be, the father was a sadist and the child on the right grew up to be transported to Australia for fraud.’ It was Higginson who had come up to me unawares and was standing at my shoulder. ‘Zoffany,’ he added.

  ‘Zoffany?’ In my ignorance I had never heard of this artist, any more than I had heard of Augustus Marley.

  ‘Currently one of the most valuable eighteenth-century painters of the English conversation piece. Second rate, in my opinion, but there you are — that’s the art world for you. Fashions come and fashions go. Collectors in this materialistic age suddenly appear to see virtue in this kind of faithful reproduction of clothes and furniture and smug, happy families.’ He sniffed disparagingly. ‘Sentimental nonsense,’ he said again.

  ‘Well, it sure beats dead cows in formaldehyde in my opinion,’ I said. ‘Actually, I think it’s great. You can feel the texture of that curtain and the mother’s dress.’

  His lips twitched in disdainful amusement.

  ‘If that’s what you want, of course... Well, I have no doubt it will attract a good price from a like-minded buyer.’ What he meant, judging from his expression and the tone of his voice, was ‘like-minded moron’. He moved away, back towards the watercolours, which were far more impressionistic. ‘These, now, are more to my taste.’

  It occurred to me that Higginson might know if Jim had made any enemies in the art world, preposterous though this might sound to me, and after a moment I followed with the intention of asking him. However, before I could open my mouth we were joined by a tall, smiling man who looked as if he had been typecast as a member of the aristocracy in a Hollywood movie. He had handsome features, fair hair brushed back over his ears, and was wearing clothes that looked both studiedly casual and fabulously expensive.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Higginson.’ The voice went with the face. It was well-modulated, relentlessly upper class. ‘I wondered where you’d got to.’ He gave me a charming smile. ‘But now I’ve seen your delightful companion, I don’t blame you for dallying a little.’

  I smiled back, but restrainedly. Crazy about himself, I thought — and was inwardly amused at the thought of what my mother would find to say about him.

  Higginson directed his tight-lipped and utterly unconvincing smile in my direction.

  ‘Miss Crozier,’ he said. ‘May I introduce Rupert Craven?’

  The owner of the red Porsche, I remembered. I acknowledged the introduction and noted, with interest, that Craven’s blue eyes appeared to sharpen as he registered my name.

  ‘Ah — so you’re Jim Crozier’s sister,’ he said, smiling down at me.

  So he’d heard of my presence here; Higginson must have mentioned it. But why would he have done that? When I’d spoken to him at Lovells there had been nothing in his manner to indicate he’d rated my presence sufficiently interesting to report to anyone.

  ‘Yes, I’m Jim’s sister.’

  ‘I was so sorry when he died. A tragic business.’

  ‘Miss Crozier,’ Higginson said, ‘has come to England with some misguided idea of trying to trace her brother’s associates, though what she hopes to gain from this is somewhat obscure.’

  I ignored this and turned towards Craven.

  ‘How well did you know Jim?’ I asked him.

  ‘Quite well. In fact, I’d say we were good friends. I frequently bought at auction — still do, of course — so I often came across him in the way of business, but apart from that we often met socially. I first met him at the home of a mutual friend someone I happened to meet at the American embassy — and after that we played squash and socialised.’

  ‘Did you know Caroline?’

  ‘Did I not?’ He smiled reminiscently. ‘A delightful girl. Believe it or not, it was I who introduced them. I’d taken Jim with me to my sister’s house one Sunday for lunch.’ He turned to Higginson politely, as if wishing to include him in the conversation. ‘You’ve met Rose, haven’t you? She and George were having a bit of a party - ’

  ‘Rose is your sister? Rose Quigley?’ I stared at him in astonishment. ‘That’s an incredible coincidence! I’m going to visit her tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that strange?’ He twinkled at me engagingly.

  ‘Though perhaps not so strange as all that. George Quigley is something of a collector and the art world is quite a small one. We all move in the same circles, round and round and round. I had no knowledge of Mr Higginson’s movements today, but I’d have bet any money on running into him. I knew he’d be enticed by the Marleys. Aren’t we all?’

  ‘I suppose it’s no use asking you if you know where I can find Caroline?’ I said. ‘Your sister said she had no news.’

  ‘Your visit will surely be rather a waste of time, then,’ Higginson said, a touch waspishly. I wondered why he should care either way, but refused to rise to the scornful note in his voice. I smiled at him sweetly.

  ‘Mrs Quigley said she would welcome it.’

  ‘And I’m sure she would,’ Craven said lightly. ‘Poor Rose doesn’t see many people these days. Well, Miss Crozier, it’s been a great pleasure to meet you, but I regret that duty calls. By the way - ’ He indicated the watercolours with an inclination of his beautifully coiffed head. ‘What do you think of these?’

  I looked once more at the pictures, six in number, and though
I was conscious of an unworthy desire to pronounce them hideous simply because Higginson liked them so much, I couldn’t find it in my heart to do so. No way! They were simply lovely delicate and understated yet somehow radiant with light.

  ‘I think they’re wonderful,’ I said. ‘But why do they say “attributed” to Augustus Marley? Is there some doubt that he actually painted them?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Craven said, genially dismissive. ‘What’s your opinion, Higginson?’

  ‘There’s no doubt whatsoever.’ Higginson had moved nearer still and was peering at the pictures. ‘They have all the trademarks that distinctive lightness of touch and way with colours. Absolutely no doubt at all.’

  ‘How much will they go for?’ I asked.

  ‘Who can tell?’ Higginson shrugged his shoulders. ‘It rather depends what dealers are present on the day. I gather, though, that there’s considerable overseas interest and my guess is they’ll fetch anything from twenty to thirty thousand each. Pounds, of course. Not dollars. Could be even more.’

  ‘Are you going to bid for them, Mr Craven?’ I asked.

  He smiled inscrutably, and refrained from making any reply.

  I became aware, suddenly, that Higginson very much wanted this conversation to be over. There was something in the way he jerked his head to look first at me and then at Rupert Craven, the impatient way he was jingling the change in his pocket. Well, like him or loathe him, I thought, he probably wanted some shop-talk with the gallery owner.

  ‘I mustn’t keep you from your deliberations,’ I said. ‘Nice to have met you, Mr Craven.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he assured me, inclining his head politely. ‘Do give Rose my love when you see her.’

  Poor Rose, he had called her. Why ‘poor’? Perhaps my visit tomorrow would give the answer to that question — as well, hopefully, as those to many others.

  I said my goodbyes and left them, making my way back into the main room where I could see Steve standing a little apart from the crowd, talking to a tall, lean, bespectacled woman wearing a dashing red cape and a vast pair of beaten metal earrings. He saw me come through the door and waved to me, clearly inviting me to joint them.

  He introduced his companion as Serena Newbold, art correspondent of the Sunday Chronicle. She looked, I thought, a touch intimidating at first sight, but I soon forgot first impressions when Steve told me she had known Caroline.

  ‘You did?’ I turned to her eagerly.

  ‘Well, I knew your brother better. I was so sorry when I heard about the accident. He was a great guy, a laugh a minute. We often met at auctions and exhibitions and so on, and I thought a lot of him. And of Caroline, too. I was working at the Sylvester Galleries then — but as I’ve been telling Steve, I haven’t seen or heard of Caroline for years, so I can’t be of much help to you, I’m afraid.’

  I tried to hide my disappointment in the interest of good manners.

  ‘I guess that’s something I’m getting used to,’ I said ruefully. ‘But it’s good to meet you, anyway. I really love talking to people who knew Jim.’

  ‘Holly was just a kid when he died,’ Steve said.

  ‘Yes, she must have been.’ Serena smiled at me. ‘He was definitely a brother to be proud of, Holly. A bit difficult to live up to, maybe - ’

  ‘Difficult? In what way?’

  She pursed her lips, shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘He was a very’ She hesitated. ‘Upright young man. I suppose that makes him sound a bit dull — just the tiniest bit holier than thou but he wasn’t like that at all. Far from it. He made me laugh all the time, but he’d never compromise his standards. Not like some.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘There’s skullduggery in the art world as much as any other. I’ve known experts such as Jim be offered bribes by gallery owners to authenticate certain dubious so-called treasures. And be leaned on by other experts to do the same. It’s dog eat dog out there. I’m telling you, with enormous fortunes to be made.’

  I had only to remember the sums mentioned by Higginson regarding those few Marley watercolours to know she wasn’t kidding.

  ‘But Jim was incorruptible?’

  ‘One of the good guys,’ Serena said.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Steve put an arm round my shoulders and gave me a squeeze, as if wanting to lighten the moment. ‘Tell me, what did you think of the Marleys?’

  ‘I loved them,’ I said. ‘In fact, there are lots of things I’m just crazy about. This place is crammed with beautiful things.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Steve was grinning down at me. ‘I saw you talking to one of them when I took a look into the next room. For one moment I thought I was to be abandoned in favour of a ride home in a Porsche.’

  ‘No sister of Jim Crozier would be taken in by that great phoney,’ Serena said.

  ‘Phoney? Rupert Craven?’

  ‘Oh, nothing proven, of course. Maybe I’m biased I just can’t stand that particular brand of spurious charm. Not that he bothers to exert it in my direction! We crossed swords long ago and now he’ll hardly give me the time of day. Personally I wouldn’t trust him even as far as I could throw him. Well She hitched her cape more comfortably on her shoulders. ‘This won’t get the column written. I must go and formulate a few coherent ideas about the Marleys. The alleged Marleys, I should say.’

  ‘Higginson says they are beyond doubt.’

  Serena smiled and shrugged her shoulders again.

  ‘He’s the man who knows,’ she said. She wished me good luck in my search for Caroline and left us, Steve bearing me off immediately to show me the Victorian scrollback sofa and one or two other items that he thought I would appreciate.

  He was so involved and enthusiastic that I didn’t want to break his train of thought by introducing the subject of Rupert Craven and his sister, and it wasn’t until we were sitting in the car, about to leave, that I told Steve about what I had discovered.

  ‘Isn’t that the oddest coincidence?’ I asked him.

  He was suddenly still as if struck by an unwelcome thought, his brows drawn together in a frown.

  ‘I’ll say it is!’

  ‘And it was at Rose’s house that Jim met Caroline. Craven said he knew Jim quite well and that he took him one Sunday - ’

  I fell silent, for it was clear that Steve was busy with his own thoughts and hadn’t heard a word of this. He was sitting in the driving seat, not turning the key, just staring in front of him and chewing his lip.

  ‘What is it? What’s bugging you?’ I asked him.

  For a moment he seemed undecided whether to tell me or not. Then, starting the car, he said, ‘Tell you over tea. And I know just the place.’ He appeared to shake off his preoccupation and turned to smile at down at me. ‘Just the cutesiest tea room in the cutesiest little village you ever saw. Guaranteed to delight the heart of any visiting American.’

  ‘Don’t you patronise me, you arrogant Limey.’

  ‘As if,’ he said gravely.

  We followed the main road for a mile or so, then turned down a narrow lane that swooped up and down hill through countryside that was as pastoral as any of Mr Marley’s watercolours. There was the sheen of fresh green on the trees, and sheep with their lambs in the fields.

  ‘I like this part of the country,’ Steve said. ‘My grandmother lived around here when I was young and I always loved coming to stay.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  And I could, too. I had this sudden picture of Steve as a small boy, exploring these woods and fields and wading over that stream, and I stared out of the car window, afraid that some instinct would tell him how much it affected me.

  After a few miles we came across an old farmhouse and a cluster of buildings, and beyond them crossroads where Steve made a left turn that quickly brought us into the main street of a small village, complete with village green and duckpond and half-timbered buildings of the kind that to most Americans typify the image of Merrie England. I was no different
. I got out of the car and looked around me with delight.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘You sure hit the nail on the head, Steve — I adore it! Is it for real? It’s straight out of a picture book. What did you say it was called?’

  ‘Simmings Cross,’ Steve said. ‘Look, there’s the cross, just by the church. It dates from the middle ages. So does the inn.’

  ‘I love it, I love it! Can we have a look round the church after tea?’

  ‘Why not? If you still want to,’ he added, as if for some obscure reason I might have changed my mind by that time.

  ‘Oh, will you just look at that row of cottages?’ I begged him. ‘They couldn’t be more perfect!’

  ‘The big one at the end is where we’re having tea.’

  We lifted the latch on the heavy oak door and went inside. Apart from one elderly couple, who were already gathering up their things to leave, we were the only people in the cafe which, I have to admit, had rather gone overboard with the cuteness. There were dark wood wheelback chairs at the round tables, and a wealth of old china, dried flowers, polished brass and chintzy curtains.

  A pleasant, fluffy, middle-aged woman in a flowery apron turned from the departing couple to greet us. I guessed she was the owner; she looked, somehow, like a lady who would own a cute tea shop.

  ‘How nice to see you,’ she said warmly to me, as if I were an old friend. I thanked her. Such courtesies — probably insincere — are not uncommon in the States and I accepted it as quite normal. But then she added, as we took our seats at a corner table, her voice one of friendly enquiry: ‘Are you going to be staying long this time?’

  This did faze me a little and briefly I hesitated.

  ‘Just long enough to have some tea, I guess.’

  ‘Oh For a second she looked disconcerted, then she gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘You’re American! Do forgive me. For one moment I thought you were someone I knew, but I can see now I was mistaken. Silly of me! Now, what can I get you?’ I left it to Steve to order tea and scones. He’d tried them before, he said, and they were the best he’d tasted anywhere.