Todd stared at Bruce as he came towards him. Very slowly, he lifted a hand and pointed directly at Bruce.
“You’re history,” he said quietly. “You’re history.”
“It’s not what you think,” said Bruce. “We were talking about tennis.”
Todd did not seem to hear this. “You have an hour to clear your desk,” hissed Todd. “You hear me? An hour.”
“You can’t dismiss people like that,” said Bruce, his voice faltering. “Not these days.”
“You listen to me,” said Todd. “Some time ago you did a survey of a flat and said that you had looked into the roof space.
Well, I went and checked – and you hadn’t. You lied. I’ve been keeping that up my sleeve. You’re history.”
Bruce stood quite still. It was a strange feeling, being history.
One of Matthew’s problems, thought Pat, was that he seemed unwilling to make decisions. The way he had behaved over the Peploe? – now the non-Peploe – was an example of his chronic lack of decisiveness. Had it not been for the fact that Big Lou had met Guy Peploe, with the result that Matthew had been pushed into action, it was doubtful whether they would have identified the painting as being by somebody other than Peploe.
Nor would they have discovered that it was probably an overpainting. That had been established by Guy Peploe himself, who had spotted the shape of an umbrella above a mountain.
Now that some progress had been made with the painting, the matter should be taken further. If it was indeed an overpainting, then what lay underneath could be of some interest
– although still probably no more than the work of some gauche amateur. Pat had asked Matthew whether he was planning to do anything about it, but he had simply shrugged.
“Maybe,” he said. “But I can’t think of who would paint an umbrella.”
“A French impressionist?” suggested Pat. “They were always painting people with umbrellas. There’s that famous one in the Art Institute of Chicago. I saw it when we went there with the Academy Art Department. They were very good, you know, the art people at the Academy. Mrs Hope. Mr Ellis. Remember them?
They took us to all sorts of places. They were inspirational. That’s where I learned to love art.”
She saw Matthew shift in his seat as she spoke. There was something funny about Matthew. He had got up to something at school – she was sure of it. But what? So many people had their secrets – secrets that we are destined never to find out.
People had a past – she had Australia, but the least said about that the better. It was not her fault – she had never thought that
– except for one or two people who had said that she should not have spoken to that person in the cafe and that she should have realised that the man with the eye-patch was not what he claimed to be. She reflected for a moment – now that she was home, it
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did not seem quite so bad. Indeed, it had been something of an adventure. Perhaps she should tell Domenica about it one of these days. She liked stories like that.
Matthew had changed the subject and nothing more was said about the non-Peploe until that afternoon, when the doorbell rang and Angus Lordie came into the gallery, followed by Cyril.
When he saw Pat, Cyril wagged his tail with pleasure and winked.
“Passing by,” said Angus Lordie. “I was taking Cyril for a stroll and I thought I might pop in and see what you have on the walls. Interesting stuff. That over there is a worth a quid or two, you know. You didn’t? Well, I think it’s a James Paterson.”
Matthew stood up and joined Angus Lordie in front of a large painting of a girl in a field. “Are you sure?” he said.
Angus Lordie smiled. “Absolutely. If I had the wall space I’d buy it myself.”
Matthew turned and glanced at Pat. “I thought it might be,”
he said.
“Well, it is,” said Angus Lordie. “He lived in Moniaive, I think. Or somewhere down . . .” He paused. He had seen the non-Peploe, which was stacked casually against the side of Matthew’s desk. “Well! Well! Look at that. Very intriguing!”
“Not a Peploe,” said Matthew, smiling. He was warming to Angus Lordie now, having disliked him when he first met him in the Cumberland Bar with Pat. The identification of the Paterson had cheered Matthew. He had no idea who James Paterson was, but he would soon find out. And Matthew was not sure where Moniaive was either, but he could look that up too.
“Oh, I can tell it’s not a Peploe,” said Angus Lordie, walking across the room to pick up the painting. “What interests me is the shape I can make out – very vaguely – underneath.”
“An umbrella,” Matthew said quickly. “Rather like the umbrellas that the French impressionists painted. You’ll know that one in Chicago, of course. The Art Institute. Wonderful place.”
Pat said nothing. It was good to see Matthew’s confidence growing. She looked at Cyril who was sitting near the door, his 318
mouth half-open, the sun glinting off his gold tooth. Cyril was perfectly confident – quite at ease in the space he occupied, as every animal is, except us.
Angus Lordie held the painting at an angle to the light.
