Death of a Delft Blue

This was, in fact, the case. ‘I wonder how ill old Mr van Zestien really is?’ she added, indicating in what direction her thoughts were moving.

‘Got a touch of the spleen because Florian hopped it out of his house to push over to Holland, I thought we were told,’ said Laura. ‘Isn’t that how it strikes you, then?’

‘It may well be the right answer. Wealthy old gentlemen often do expect to rule the lives of those who may benefit by their deaths. However, one never knows, and, that being the case, one wishes to refrain from judging.’

‘Tell me what you really think,’ urged Laura. ‘You believe that Florian’s dead, don’t you? And that old van Zestien knows it?’

‘Dear me!’ said Dame Beatrice, in mild and faintly astonished tones. ‘Accustomed as I am to your West Scottish acumen, sometimes known as second sight, or, in the vernacular, as having the Gift, the extraordinary conclusion to which you have leapt confounds and amazes me.’

‘Ah, I thought I knew,’ said Laura, looking modestly down her nose. ‘You can’t fool poor old Auntie Dog the whole of the time, you know. So we go corpse-hunting, do we?’

‘Really!’ said Dame Beatrice, with an eldritch screech of laughter which, together with her royal blue and sulphur costume, almost over-emphasized her resemblance to a macaw. ‘Nothing is further from my thoughts, and, from the zestful tone of your question, nobody would think that the unfortunate young man to whom you refer was an acquaintance of yours!’

‘I didn’t take to him,’ said Laura soberly. ‘1 didn’t take to him at all.’

‘No, he is — or, as you prefer to put it, was — a less than endearing character. Nevertheless…’ She did not attempt to finish the sentence. There was silence until Laura said:

‘Well, be all that as it may, having sorted Binnen, where do we go from there?’

‘It all depends upon what she is able to tell us. Then, of course, her daughters may know more than she does.. Again, we have the name of the sculptor from whom the bust was commissioned. He may well have been in Florian’s confidence. A curious kind of sympathy often exists between sitter and artist. Indeed, I think it must be so if the work is to be a success. I use the word sympathy in its widest possible sense. I am prepared to believe that the artist could hate the sitter and still produce a work of genius.’

‘But, in that case, they would hardly confide in one another,’ argued Laura.

‘Hatred — a clean, untroubled, intellectual emotion vastly removed from envy, jealousy, abhorrence or disgust — is closely akin to love, as we are often reminded. One thinks of various poems. There is one by Herbert Palmer which begins, if you remember:

I hated a fellow-man long ago, but when he heard that his enemy was dead — my heart was heavy, and gave no sound. And there are other, even more emphatic, instances.’

‘Hm! Not sure that I see eye to eye. All the same, you think this Albion, the artist, may know more about Florian than the family do? That’s more than possible, especially if, far from hating each other, they got on quite well together. I think they must have done. I can’t see Florian putting himself out, and going for sittings and so forth, just to oblige Binnen. And, of course, Opal and Ruby he absolutely despises and detests. Can’t say I’m gone on them myself. Wonder what their father was like? They don’t somehow seem to take after Binnen, do they?’

‘It does not seem so, but, in fairness, we must admit that we have enjoyed only the most superficial acquaintance with them.’

‘I can’t say I’ve enjoyed it, and, in any case, I always rely on first impressions.’

‘And those, unlike second thoughts, are best, I have always found. Nevertheless, when we have spoken with their mother, we must consult them.’

‘Separately?’

‘Separately. It is the only way to examine witnesses.’

‘Yes,’ said Laura thoughtfully. She was silent for a full minute, a silence into which nothing but the discreet ticking of the lounge clock intruded itself. ‘Yes, why am I so certain that Florian is dead, I wonder?’

‘Because Professor Derde van Zestien thinks he is,’ Dame Beatrice replied. ‘Well, we have done what we set out to do in Scotland, so tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new.’

They left at ten. Frank and Flora Colwyn-Welch saw them off and seemed unimpressed by old Bernard’s illness and their son’s disappearance. There was no sign of Binnie, but Bernardo, his overnight bag at his feet, was loitering in the vestibule. He came forward when the farewells were concluded.

‘Awful cheek on my part,’ he said, ‘but I wondered whether… ?’

‘Of course. You may sit next to George,’ said Dame Beatrice at once. ‘Then, if I want to talk secrets with Laura, I have only to close the glass screen.’

‘It’s awfully good of you.’ He saw them into the car, greeted George pleasantly and got in beside him. He insisted upon paying for lunch, but left them at Harrogate, where they were to spend the night. ‘I’d better get back home,’ he explained. ‘Got a big deal on tomorrow afternoon. There’s a train at ten past six which will bring me into London in time to beg a doss-down from a friend of mine who’s got a handy flat. Thanks very much indeed for the lift.’

‘Well, he’s nice enough,’ said Laura, when they had dropped him at the station and were driving back to the hotel, ‘but I don’t mind seeing the back of him, all the same. Wonder what happened to Binnie, that she didn’t see us off?’

‘I expect she was tired after the affecting reconciliation with Bernardo,’ said Dame Beatrice. Laura snorted suspiciously.

‘Out on the tiles with him, I suppose you mean,’ she said bluntly. ‘One would never think these girls read the sob-stuff page in the women’s magazines, would one? And I’m quite sure most of them do.’

‘Ah, those women’s magazines!’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘I remember that you have recommended them to me before. I am sure, however, that Bernardo is a man of honour.’