Long Time Coming (11 page)

‘When did you realize the Picassos had been stolen from you?’

‘When the Brownlow Collection went on view for the first time, at the Met three years ago. All eighteen of them together. All acquired post-war. It was too big a coincidence. Mom knew then Cardale had shafted us. She’d always assumed her father had believed the paintings to be genuine – otherwise why would he have gone to such lengths to save them? – and that he must have been cheated by the dealer who’d sold them to him in the first place. Three years ago, she realized they really had been genuine and that Cardale was the one who’d done the cheating. But he was dead by then. His grandson denied all knowledge. And the Brownlow estate stonewalled her. She spent a lot of money on lawyers and got nothing for it. Now she says she wishes she’d never found out. I guess she’s right. It probably would have been better for us to have gone on in ignorance. It wasn’t bliss. Take my word for it. But it beat turning over and over in your mind the things you could
do and the changes you could make … with all those millions.’

‘Maybe you should stop coming here, Rachel. It doesn’t sound as if it’s … good for you.’

‘That’s what my friends tell me. Forget it. Give it up. Put it behind you. Write it off. Move on. Well, I tried, but it just didn’t work. So then I decided to attack the problem head on. I fixed myself up with a year off from the UN and came to Europe to check the Brownlow estate’s version of how he’d acquired the Picassos. It’s what our lawyers were supposed to have done, but I reckoned, if I double-checked everything, I’d find what they’d missed: the crucial connection to Cardale I needed to clinch our claim.’

‘But you never found it?’

‘No. The story was the same in Paris and Geneva and the other cities I moved on to, chasing leads. The dealer Brownlow had used was dead or retired or had bought the picture from another dealer who was dead or retired – or untraceable. Memories had failed. Documentation was missing. No one knew anything – or was prepared to admit it if they did. It was a maze without a centre. Eventually, I gave up. Since then, I’ve been staying here in London with an old college friend who works at the American Embassy, putting off as long as I can the day when I have to admit defeat and go home.’

‘Well, maybe you don’t have to admit defeat now.’

‘Thanks to good old Uncle Eldritch and the anonymous moneybags who’s signed him up?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Go on, then.’ Her half-smile was wholly sceptical. ‘Tell me he’s homing in on proof positive that Cardale stole the Picassos.’

‘It’s early days.’

‘Not for me.’

‘Do you know who the forger was that Cardale used?’

‘No. Do you?’

‘Yes. Hiring him was as far as Eldritch got before he was arrested. His name’s Desmond Quilligan.’

‘Still alive?’

‘I don’t know. But I mean to find out. And it’s something, isn’t it? Something more than you’ve uncovered.’

She paused to put another cigarette in her mouth. I leant across the table to light it without waiting to be asked. For a second, we were so close I could feel her breath fanning my fingers. She went on looking at me, searching my face for some clue that she could trust me, which I sensed, for all her prickliness, she wanted to, very much. Then she leant back and took a long drag. She blew the smoke out slowly into the air above us. ‘OK. That is something. Anyhow, it might be. And I want in on it. Naturally. Can I meet Eldritch?’

‘Of course. Let me set it up with him.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘OK. Do you live in London?’

‘No. We’ve come up from Devon.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘The Ritz.’ I winced as I said it. I knew Eldritch’s choice of hotel would confirm all her prejudices about him. The arch of her eyebrows declared as much. But she said nothing. ‘I’ll need your phone number.’

She took a biro out of her satchel and wrote the number on one of the empty sugar sachets. ‘You will call, won’t you, Stephen?’

‘It’s a promise.’

‘Promises have never amounted to much in my experience.’

‘You must have been given them by the wrong people.’

‘Yeah.’ She gave a melancholy little nod. ‘I guess I must.’

We parted in the courtyard at the front of the building. Rachel looked pensive, almost apprehensive. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

‘Do you really not know what Eldritch served time for?’

‘He won’t say. He claims it was a condition of his release that he shouldn’t discuss it. He went to Ireland in June 1940 to hire Quilligan and never made it back to London. That’s all I can tell you.’

‘How much will he be paid if he finds what we need to reclaim the Picassos?’

‘You said you didn’t want to know.’

‘I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Fifty thousand pounds.’

Her eyes widened. ‘As much as that?’

‘Someone obviously badly wants him to succeed.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Does Eldritch know?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘But you’re not sure?’

‘He’s a hard man to read.’

‘I’ll bet he is. Tell me, Stephen, are you worried by how many sides there are to this you don’t understand?’

‘Do you think I should be?’

‘Maybe.’ She looked intently at me. ‘Maybe we both should be.’ Then, quite suddenly, she turned and walked smartly away across the courtyard.

‘I’ll call you later,’ I shouted after her.

She raised a hand in acknowledgement. But she didn’t stop, or even glance back at me, as she strode through the gateway into Piccadilly.

The Red Lion was still quiet at noon, the lunchtime crush at least half an hour away. The pub was close enough to Ryder Street for me to imagine Eldritch had been a frequent customer during his seven weeks of gallery-minding back in 1940. The cramped interior didn’t look as if it had changed in a hundred years, let alone thirty-six. Catching my reflection in a mirror, which was difficult to avoid given how many of them there were, I seemed to see Eldritch’s younger face, hair slicked, mouth curled, gazing ironically back at me.

Then the old man with the stoop and the furrowed skin and the antique suit that Eldritch had become walked in behind me. And only the irony remained, a ghost in his wary gaze.

He ordered his habitual Scotch and joined me by the window. ‘Been having fun?’ he asked, coughing as he lit one of his Sobranies.

‘I took another look at the Picassos,’ I said, uncertain how soon I should tell him about Rachel Banner. ‘What have you been up to?’

‘I went to the General Register Office. It’s not called that any more and they’ve moved it from Somerset House. But I tracked down what I wanted in the end.’

‘They’ve been gone from Somerset House for a few years now. I could have told you that if you’d said where you were going.’

He smiled. ‘Indulge me, Stephen. There are still a few things I can do on my own. And I expect you were glad to be rid of
me for a morning. Meet any nice girls at the Royal Academy?’

I must have looked at least half as shocked as I felt. ‘Sorry?’ I spluttered through a mouthful of beer.

‘I used to find art galleries were excellent for picking up pretty girls. They tended to be of a … sensuous disposition.’ He chuckled. ‘Intelligent too, of course, which could be a mixed blessing.’

‘What were you looking for at Somerset House?’ I asked, eager to change the subject.

‘St Catherine’s House. Remember? They’ve moved. As you could have told me.’ He seemed highly amused, which I had to hope was because he thought me embarrassed rather than guilty. ‘Well, I wanted to see what they had on Desmond Quilligan.’

‘Was there anything?’

‘Yes. I suspected he’d never have gone back to Ireland. He needed to be close to his son. And the IRA would have regarded him as a renegade for renouncing the armed struggle. So, he stayed in London. At all events he died in London. Twenty years ago, aged fifty-seven. Alcoholic poisoning. What a way to go, hey? But it does mean we have a last address for him. I suggest we have a spot of lunch here, then go and see if he’s still remembered there.’

I probably should have reported my encounter with Rachel to Eldritch over lunch. But something held me back. It was inconceivable on a practical level that he’d managed to spy on me
and
burrow through old death certificates in the course of the morning, but I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling that somehow he had. And it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. It wasn’t pleasant at all.

Desmond Quilligan’s address at the time of his death in 1956 was a bay-fronted pebble-dashed semi in Dollis Hill, located halfway along a street full of bay-fronted pebble-dashed semis. The Irish patriot had bowed out in inner suburban obscurity. Eldritch rang the doorbell and, getting no immediate response, rang again. The chances that anyone would be at home in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon had never been better than fifty-fifty, of course. He
squinted through the frosted oval of glass set in the door at eye-level and grunted negatively.

At that moment, a car pulled on to the farther side of the shared driveway serving the pair of garages that separated one set of semis from another. A plump, frizzy-haired woman in some kind of medical uniform clambered out, shopping bags in hand. I smiled across at her.

‘Looking for Brenda Duthie?’ she called.

‘Has she lived here long?’ I called back.

‘Brenda? Goodness, yes. Since before the war, I think.’

‘Then, yes, we are looking for her. Do you think she’ll be back soon?’

The neighbour reckoned Brenda would be back before too long. We settled to wait. Eldritch sat on the low front wall, with his back to the privet hedge, while I walked up and down the pavement. Time inched by. The afternoon grew grey and cool. Eldritch coughed his way through a couple of cigarettes. Suddenly, I felt exhausted by the effort of holding out on him.

‘I met Meridor’s granddaughter at the Royal Academy this morning,’ I announced, stopping in front of him.

He looked wintrily up at me. His gaze narrowed suspiciously. ‘Who?’

‘Meridor’s granddaughter. Her name’s Rachel Banner. None of her family is Twisk’s client, Eldritch. She has no idea who might be. She’s been trying to—’

‘You told her about Twisk?’

‘I told her what we’re doing and why.’

He jumped up, the effort seeming to wind him so badly he had to grasp the gatepost beside him for support. He coughed raspingly, then found the breath to give me his opinion of my behaviour. ‘You idiot. What in God’s name did you think you were doing? You might have … might have endangered everything.’

‘What’s there to endanger? I’m trying to make progress. She gave me a lot of valuable information.’

‘Not half as valuable as what you gave her in return, no doubt.
How did she just happen to be at the Royal Academy at the same time as you?’

‘She goes there to look at the Picassos, to dream of how much better life would have been for her – and for her brother and her mother
and
her grandmother, Meridor’s widow, who’s still alive, you might be interested to know – if you and Cardale hadn’t cheated them out of their inheritance.’

‘You had no right to discuss my affairs with her.’

‘They’re my affairs too. I’m not going to lie to anyone, certainly not her, on your account.’

‘You should have guarded your tongue until you’d consulted me.’

‘Well, I’m consulting you now. She expects you to meet her tomorrow. I expect you to meet her too.’

‘I won’t be—’

‘Good afternoon,’ a voice cut in.

I whirled round to see a small, slightly built woman of seventy or so, dressed in raincoat and headscarf, a string-bag full of groceries in one hand, a handbag in the other, frowning at us in puzzlement. Despite the frown, a smile seemed also to be present on her face. She had chipmunk cheeks and laughter lines aplenty round her green-grey eyes. Grey hair curled out from beneath a headscarf.

‘If you’ve something to argue about,’ she continued, ‘could I ask you to do it somewhere other than my front gate?’

I was on the point of apologizing, but Eldritch got in first, stepping forward and doffing his hat to her. ‘Mrs Duthie?’ He was all smooth gentility now and had spotted the band of gold on her ring finger much sooner than I’d have done. ‘Please excuse us. It was more of a misunderstanding than an argument. My name’s Swan – Eldritch Swan – and this is my nephew, Stephen Swan.’ He was evidently betting Quilligan had never mentioned him to Mrs Duthie, whose expression suggested he was betting right. ‘We’re looking for someone I knew a long time ago. I gathered he lived here. Desmond Quilligan.’

‘You knew Desmond?’

‘As I say. A long time ago.’

‘Were you friends?’

‘Briefly. In Ireland. Before the war.’

‘Well, Mr Swan, I’m sorry to say Desmond passed away. It must be twenty years he’s been gone. My goodness,’ – a thought had struck her, apparently a poignant one – ‘how time flies.’

‘Indeed.’ Eldritch looked suitably solemn. ‘And more and more of one’s acquaintances fall by the wayside as it does so.’

‘Yes. Dear, dear. That’s only too true.’ She sighed. ‘Have you come far?’

‘From Devon.’

‘Come in for a cup of tea, then. It’ll be nice to talk about Desmond again. Such a nice man.’

Indoors was a spotless repository of Art Deco furniture, ornaments and bric-à-brac. Brenda Duthie threaded a full autobiography into her tea-making routine, revealing that early widowhood had prompted her to take in lodgers in the late forties, of whom Desmond Quilligan was the one to have stayed by far the longest. ‘Such a charmer. And so helpful around the house. Leslie adored him.’ (Leslie, her son, was now, she proudly informed us, a Woolwich Building Society branch manager.) ‘But Desmond’s heart was never as light as he’d lead you to believe. There was an abiding sadness in him, Mr Swan, as perhaps you know.’

‘That must have come later,’ said Eldritch, glancing a warning at me to let him vary his tactics as he saw fit. ‘He didn’t seem to have a care in the world when I knew him. Did he paint this?’

Eldritch nodded to a picture over the mantelpiece. We were in the sitting-room, where cups of tea and slices of Battenberg cake were being doled out. The picture was a large and plainly framed oil, depicting Mrs Duthie’s house in precise and finely limned detail. Dollis Hill had surely never looked so beautiful, though whether this reflected the artist’s fondness for the area or for the woman who’d taken him in was hard to tell.