Next of Kin (16 page)

Montignac looked across at him. ‘How do you mean?' he asked.

‘It's a silly thing,' said Gareth, shaking his head. ‘I'm not really supposed to take too much. It can affect me quite badly. I did very well tonight, though; I only had a couple of glasses.'

‘And did he force you to bet on the roulette too?' asked Montignac.

‘Well no, but—'

‘Then it seems a little harsh to blame him for your own mistakes, don't you think? Although I agree with you entirely in your judgement of him. He's a leech. And a spineless coward too. I could tell you stories about that one that would make you avoid him like the plague.'

Gareth nodded but didn't ask for further details; he watched through the windows as the streets rolled by and wished that the traffic was heavier and their conversation could continue for longer yet. Staring at his reflection in the dark mirror his eyes drifted again towards his companion's bright white hair which stood out in stark contrast to his own dark, unruly thatch. He had found Montignac's dismissal of Conway enormously refreshing. He suddenly felt tired and let out a tremendous and unexpected yawn.

‘What time do you have to be up at in the morning?' asked Montignac, trying to make conversation as they continued their journey along Oxford Street and towards Bloomsbury.

‘Whenever I feel like it,' said Gareth. ‘I don't have any work to go to.'

‘Really? And there you were coveting the lifestyle of the idle rich earlier. It sounds to me like you're one of their number.'

‘Well I'd like to be,' laughed Gareth. ‘If my father would allow it. But I rather think my days of wine and roses are drawing to a close. I'm about to be sucked into the family business.'

‘Which is…?'

‘The law. My father's a barrister. Well he's a judge, actually. He's the head of the Rice Chambers.'

Montignac nodded and searched his memory for the name; there was a flicker of recall there somewhere and he chanced across it. ‘Roderick Bentley,' he said. ‘The judge who sentenced Domson to death. He's your father.'

‘Guilty as charged.'

‘I see,' said Montignac thoughtfully.

‘He refuses to support me any more unless I get a job and I can't find one to suit me so I've decided to bite the bullet. Tonight might have been my last night as a free man. Perhaps I should have got drunk after all.'

Montignac nodded as the cab turned the corner from Russell Street into Bedford Place and he gave the driver the number of his flat.

‘Do I take you to mean that you'd rather not be heading for a career in the law yourself?' he asked.

‘Of course not. It makes me feel like my whole life is being taken away from me.'

‘And do you have any preference for what you'd like to do instead?'

‘Not really,' said Gareth, shaking his head. ‘It's ridiculous really to get to this age and never to have given any thought to the subject. I feel like I've wasted my youth, Mr Montignac.'

‘Well it's not over yet.'

‘No, but I'm not sure I'm built for work. It's like we were saying earlier. I'd like to be one of the idle rich.'

Montignac smiled. ‘In order to join that class, one needs a sizeable inheritance or a lack of scruples.'

‘I'm not sure I have any scruples,' said Gareth.

‘Really?'

‘Well I suppose I've never really been tested,' he added with more caution.

‘They're unnecessary things,' said Montignac, staring straight ahead and lowering his voice. ‘Anyone has the choice about committing certain acts in order to improve the condition of one's life. It's whether or not one is willing to proceed with those impulses or not that counts.'

‘Anything to keep me away from the Rice Chambers,' replied Gareth flippantly.

‘Whether one would lie, for example,' continued Montignac.

‘Everybody lies.'

‘Or steal.'

‘Depends who it was from, I suppose.'

‘Or even kill.'

Gareth turned and stared at his companion, who immediately broke into a forced smile and patted him on the arm. ‘Don't look so appalled,' he said quickly. ‘It's just idle chatter.'

The cab pulled up and Montignac hesitated before saying anything else, aware that the young man hadn't replied to the last suggestion.

‘Listen, Gareth,' he said, reaching into his pocket and taking out his card. ‘I think I know a little bit about the predicament you're in and I might be able to help you. My details are all down here. Why don't you call on me over the next few days and we'll meet again and discuss it?'

Gareth took the card and stared across at this relative stranger, almost unable to believe his luck. ‘Do you mean you might have a job for me?' he asked.

‘Not exactly,' he replied. He looked out the window towards his flat and opened the cab door quickly, unwilling to discuss it further tonight. ‘Just call on me,' he said, stepping out on to the street. ‘You might find that it's to your advantage.'

He nodded and put the card in his overcoat pocket as Montignac closed the door and waved them off. Young men with connections, such as Gareth Bentley was, were always young men worth getting to know.

The young man in question was driving across Woburn towards Tavistock Square when he realized that Montignac had done to him exactly what Jasper Conway had been planning on doing: leaving him to pay the full cost of the taxi. And yet somehow he didn't seem to mind so much any more.

He put his hand to his pocket several times in order to make sure that the card was still there, just in case it had mysteriously disintegrated or vanished into thin air over the previous few minutes.

Before arriving home he checked for it three more times before deciding to hold it in his hands for safe keeping. The last thing he wanted was to leave it behind in the taxicab.

THREE

1

THE THREADBARE ART GALLERY
opened its doors for the first time in 1930, specializing in the presentation and sale of contemporary art. The owner, Mrs Rachel Conliffe, was a middle-aged lady of independent means who believed that the young painters and sculptors of London were being shamefully overlooked by their local gallery owners, most of whom were stuck in an artistic time warp. To counter this she made it a rule that nothing produced before the death of Queen Victoria could be put on display in her gallery; Edwardian was fine, Georgian even better. The critics mocked at first; it seemed to stand out as an anachronism in the row of commercial galleries along Cork Street, which were notorious for their neglect of younger artists, but it slowly began to develop a reputation for eccentricity and the art-buying public drifted curiously towards it. Within a couple of years a purchase from the Threadbare had become something of a status symbol, a whisper to the world that one was of a fashionable mind and not stuck wallowing in the dull traditions of the past.

Mrs Conliffe maintained a hands-off approach to the business, showing up once every few weeks to cast an eye over the new displays, but she made a comfortable living from a distance and preferred not to involve herself in the daily operations. For that she had hired Owen Montignac, a talented and personable young Cambridge graduate, after her original manager had left for a position in the Tate; Montignac's appointment came under the recommendation of his late uncle, who had been a business acquaintance of Mrs Conliffe's husband for many years.

The morning after the meeting with Nicholas Delfy at the Unicorn Ballrooms, Montignac woke earlier than usual, at around six thirty, and was unable to get back to sleep. He found that no matter what problems were weighing him down—financial concerns, worries about Stella's forthcoming marriage, the possibility of being ripped apart by Delfy's thugs—they tended to make their appearance only at night, like owls or vampires. And on this occasion, there was only one problem pressing on his mind: money.

He rose and washed, eating a light breakfast before leaving his flat an hour later. It was a fine summer's morning so he was able to walk to the gallery as usual. The time alone and fresh air might, he hoped, help to clear his head. His options were limited now. Four weeks to raise ten thousand pounds. The idea was absurd. And after that there would still be the matter of raising four times that amount before the end of the year, but he dismissed that from his mind for the moment as being beside the point. He had to concentrate on the initial payment first.

He considered how much money he had left in his savings—just under nine hundred pounds—and wondered whether it would be worthwhile taking that to a different casino later in the day and trying to win enough money to pay Delfy back what he owed him, but he quickly shrugged this idea off before he could even countenance it; it had been thinking like this that had got him into this mess in the first place.

The shocking thing, the thing that made him sick to his stomach whenever he thought of it, was how his uncle had cut him off. It was one thing for him to decide to leave his fortune to Stella—after all, she was his only surviving child and he could just about have understood this decision—but to leave him with nothing at all? It was beyond cruel.

They had gathered, Stella and he, in the library at Leyville the morning after the funeral and Sir Denis Tandy, Peter Montignac's lawyer, was waiting for them when they shuffled in. Stella looked pale and drawn, as if the events of the previous few days were beginning to take their toll on her, while Montignac himself felt energized and excited by what was to come. Finally, the stolen Montignac fortune would return to where it rightfully belonged. An injustice would be set right.

‘Stella, Owen,' said Sir Denis, looking up from the reading desk and rising to greet them. ‘How are you both feeling this morning?'

Stella shrugged and said nothing, lowering herself heavily into a wing-backed armchair, her eyes lingering for a moment on the sinister document laid out on the desk.

‘We're both quite tired,' said Montignac. ‘I don't think either of us has had much sleep over the last few days. It will be nice to get things back to normal.'

‘Well they're not going to get back to normal, are they?' Stella pointed out irritably. ‘I mean Father's not coming back so I don't see how normal is a possibility.'

Sir Denis opened his mouth but found that he had used up all his words of condolence already and could find no more. He was unimpressed with Stella's attitude. It was one thing to mourn and be upset during a funeral, that was perfectly understandable, but once it was over? Well then it was only good form to return to normal and pretend that nothing had ever happened. Showing emotions never did anyone any good. He didn't respond to her and moved around behind the desk as Montignac sat down opposite him.

There was a tap on the door and they looked around, surprised to be disturbed, but it was only Margaret Richmond, who arrived in the room carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and three cups balanced precariously alongside it.

‘Sorry to disturb,' she whispered as she approached them, placing the tray on a side table. ‘I thought you might like some coffee.'

‘Margaret, you're a lifesaver,' said Stella gratefully, standing up and pouring three cups out and handing them around.

She stood there nervously, wringing her hands as she was wont to do, and looked at her two former charges.

‘Everything all right, Margaret?' asked Montignac, noticing her still standing there.

‘Fine,' she said. ‘If there's anything you need, just call me.'

‘Thank you, Miss Richmond,' said Sir Denis in a loud voice, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. ‘I think we just need a little privacy if you don't mind.'

Margaret nodded and left the room quickly, closing the heavy doors behind her and Montignac turned back to the other two with the hint of a smile on his face.

‘She seems a little frazzled this morning,' he said.

‘She was a witness to the will,' explained Sir Denis. ‘Perhaps it's a little unnerving for her to know it's about to be read out.'

Montignac shrugged, unsure why that would be the case, and went over to add a little cream to his coffee.

*   *   *

ONLY ONE OF THE
other galleries on Cork Street had their lights switched on at this time of the morning and Montignac glanced through the window as he passed by to see Arthur Hamilton, the manager of the superior Clarion Gallery next door, prising open some large wooden delivery containers with the help of some assistants. Hamilton saw him looking and raised a hand in greeting. Although considerably older than him—he had been working on Cork Street before some of Montignac's artists had even been born—the two neighbours got along very well and he made a mental note to visit later and see what new work was on display. They had enjoyed many long conversations about their favourite artists and Montignac felt at times that he had learned more from the gallery owner next door than he had from most of the ageing dons at Cambridge during the years he had spent there.

Montignac had studied history of art at the university and had originally hoped for a career in painting himself but he had no talent for it; a year's worth of unoriginal canvases had seen off that particular ambition. His passion was for the French artists of the nineteenth century—the urban preoccupations of Manet, the impressionist landscapes of Pissarro, the symbolism of Paul Gauguin—something he put down to the fact that he himself was French on his mother's side and had spent his first five years near Clermont-Ferrand before being claimed back for the English by his uncle, Peter Montignac.

Unlike many of his wealthy friends, however, he was not the sort who was happy to laze around all day, lunching and drinking and gossiping in their clubs, and was glad to have a job to go to, particularly as he was in charge of the gallery and could run it as he saw fit. It was an elegant life, the only negative being Mrs Conliffe's insistence on displaying only young artists, most of whom had barely a scrap of talent as far as he was concerned. In recent times he had started to make a particular point of buying the very worst canvases he could find—complicated pieces with no central theme, no unity of expression whatsoever, replete with bad brushwork and jarring colours—or the most perverse sculptures simply in order to see how gullible the wealthy art buyers of London actually were. And he had his answer: very.